Desperado
by HardlyFatal
Summary: It's 1887. There's been a spate of murders in the peaceful little town of Kingsland, Texas. Arrests have been made, and maybe Sheriff Clegane can solve the case, but if not, two men are sentenced to hang… unless Sansa can figure out a way to save them. Dany/Jon, Brienne/Jaime, Sansa/Sandor.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: So, yeah, It's me again. Hi! Here are some notes on what's happening in this story.**

 **1) The title, "Desperado", refers not only to the Western/cowboy setting but also the definition of the word: it means 'desperate' and all parties in this story are at the end of their ropes- two of them in a quite literal sense, at one point. This story is, ultimately, about the intersection of choice and self-determination. Don't be too impressed about that, it was totes a coincidence- I just started writing and it turns out there's, like, thematic significance or some shit like that.**

 **2) Pairings will be, as always because I am fixated, Sansa/Sandor, Brienne/Jaime, and Dany/Jon.**

 **3) There will be character death, but not of any of the three pairings.**

 **4) It takes place in the late 19th century "Wild West" period of American history. There actually is a Kingsland, Texas, and geographically, it is set there, but no events from that area have been incorporated into the story. I literally just found it on a map and said, yep, that looks like a good place to drop this.**

 **5) It's a convenient (for me) mix of canon and American culture/customs. There are 7 gods, but they go to church, not sept, that sort of thing. I hope it won't be too difficult to follow but y'all came along for the trip re: the epistolary style of None But You part 2, so I have faith you'll all chug along nicely with this story, too :)**

 **Okay, now that that's all said: I hope you enjoy this story, please let me know what you think!**

* * *

Prologue

In 1887, Kingsland, Texas was a prosperous little town, as towns went in that place and in that time. The land upon which it stood had first been claimed by the Targaryens, an enterprising family from Boston, forty years earlier. It lay empty for almost a decade, the Targaryen-built shops sitting vacant on the dusty main street, but then the Martells— aristocrats newly arrived from Spain by way of Mexico— saw the value of land which, even if not arable or grazeable, would still need to be owned by someone, somehow.

The Martells bought everything the Targaryens hadn't, and soon had made themselves a fortune by selling the bottom land around the river to the Tully family, and the lush area out by the lake to the Tyrells. Half of the huge rocky outcroppings of granite and and sandstone (and, it was rumored, gold) was bought by the Lannisters and the other half by the Arryns. Whatever was left was snatched up for the purpose of farming cattle by the likes of Starks and Baratheons. The empty shops filled up, as did the Targaryen coffers, and soon everyone was prospering and happy.

Well, _most_ everyone, at least. There would always be those for whom prosperity was not enough; they had to reach 'prosperity' and then go another mile or two past it to 'obscenely wealthy', and even then, it might not suffice.

Then there were those for whom mere money was a negligible asset. No, they were after power, holding the fates of others in their hands. Those were the truly dangerous ones, because if you take away the money of the greedy, they're rendered impotent, helpless. They don't know how to function without the lubrication that wealth provides. The powerful, though… once power is gained, it is much harder to lose. Fear is a masterful weapon, and the powerful know well how to wield it.

Thus it passed that the wealthy (Robert Baratheon, rancher) and the powerful (Peter Baelish, circuit court judge) made the acquaintance of a man who was both: Tywin Lannister. As the star of the Lannisters waxed and that of the Targaryens waned, ultimately leaving only one frustrated, irritable, and lonely daughter to govern the entirety of her family's interests in Kingsland, Tywin's influence grew and grew.

He was a widower and the parent of three children, two possessing an almost unworldly beauty and the last being a misshapen little goblin who made it his life's work to vex his sole remaining parent at every opportunity, a goal he pursued with fervent enthusiasm. When Tywin observed how his daughter, Cersei, had caught the lascivious attention of Robert Baratheon, he saw an opportunity to expand both his influence and his bank accounts, and took it.

That his daughter, barely sixteen, was wildly opposed to the match was irrelevant. Tywin was sure she would get over any maidenly vapors she might be feeling, and get over them she apparently did, surprising him when a grandson howled his way into the world with such eagerness that he arrived only seven months after his parents' wedding. The next child, however, took five years after that to make her debut, and the third, five more after that.

Feeling secure that his family's legacy was duly preserved, at least for the present— his elder son's recalcitrance to find his own bride was a less pressing issue that could wait for a later day— Tywin formed a shipping business with the middle Baratheon son, Stannis, and hied himself away to San Francisco to live in refinement, leaving the Kingsland mining interests to his sons.

The younger, one Tyrion Lannister, despised the dusty Texas town even more than his father and hastened to head east, professing a desire to acquaint himself with his mother's people, but really to get an education he could rely upon for the inevitable day when Tywin disinherited him. Tyrion went to university, then law school, then established a practice in Charleston, and tried his best to forget the horrible half of his family while still managing to maintain relationships with the other half, whom he actually rather liked.

No less fecund than the Lannisters were the Starks. Eddard Stark had arrived with his new-married wife to stake a claim, built her a shack and the cows a paddock, then went south in search of his missing sister. He returned a year later with no sister, a half-Mexican bastard in a papoose on his back and a refusal to discuss any pesky details about how said bastard had come into existence.

His wife, it need not be said, was not best pleased. She had her own son to tend to, born while his father was jaunting around the desert and seemingly partaking of the generosity of various senoritas. In solidarity with one of their heritage, the Martells sent over a wet nurse to feed Jon both milk and love, and teach him Spanish so he would not forget the other half of himself, and time passed.

More children were added to the Stark family: two daughters, two more sons. The WF Ranch flourished. The Starks gained a reputation for fairness and honor, in— ahem— stark counterpoint to the shady dealings for which the Lannisters and Baratheons had gained notoriety as the decades rolled on and customs became entrenched in the dirt below and sky above Kingsland.

More families arrived: Tarlys to man the post office and, in time, the telegraph machine; Boltons to serve as abattoir and butcher as needed; Greyjoys to run a stagecoach company (and then decide it was more profitable to rob their competitors' vehicles at gunpoint rather than use their own to transport passengers).

Tarths arrived, all four of them tall and rawboned and ugly as homemade sin, boasting nothing more than astonishingly beautiful eyes in various shades of blue and the sort of ironclad conscience and honor that put a body in mind of Starks, but without the bastard problem lingering like a fart in church.

But the Tarths were not a lucky family, for all that their goodness and decency seemed like it should earn them a free pass from suffering. First Miz Tarth died, then her son Galladon, and then Mr. Tarth had himself an apoplexy and had to spend his days in a wheeled chair on the porch of their homestead, after that. It left his daughter Brienne, the last Tarth, to not only care for him but keep house, garden, and tend the cattle as well.

She managed it at first, for a few months. Then it came time to drive the cattle up to St. Louis. Their herd was modest, but Pa and Galladon had always moved the herd while she and Ma stayed home and waited for them to come back. It had gotten harder when it was just Pa, him being older and not as easy in the saddle for twelve hours a day as he'd been in the past. Now that he was poorly, however, it all fell on her, and as time grew shorter before she had to make her decision about how to proceed, Brienne felt the first stirrings of despair.

"You should ask Father," advised Sansa Stark, one of the only friends Brienne had managed to make in Kingsland. "I bet he'd drive your cattle up to St. Louis and let you pay him later, from the earnings you'll make selling your herd."

Brienne had no doubt Ned Stark would not only agree, but be happy to do it. He was a lovely man, in her estimation, far nicer than his snooty Tully wife. Brienne understood Catelyn's offense at being presented with a bastard almost the same age as her own legitimate son but… people made mistakes, didn't they? It was over two decades later, and the mistake had not been repeated, it would appear; there was every indication that Ned had maintained the strictest fidelity ever since his return from Mexico. Or at least no other bastards had presented themselves at the WF in all those years. Was it not time to let bygones be bygones?

Jon seemed like a nice enough young man, and hardly deserving of how Catelyn refused to let him sit in the Stark pew at church, or take meals with the family, or even live in the house, having him sleep in the bunkhouse with the ranch hands. It seemed unnecessarily cruel, especially since it was not as if Jon himself were responsible for being born in such an ignominious status.

Sansa herself was a bit puzzled by the situation. She adored her mother, and looked to Catelyn as her role model in all things. If Catelyn curled her lip at the very sight of Jon, and treated him like a particularly homely and smelly servant… well, then, Sansa would, too.

Except it made her feel _horrible_ afterward, and more often than not, she'd cry, to the contempt of her sister, Arya, who suffered no such conflicts, since she was excessively fond of her half-brother.

"You _should_ feel horrible," said Arya flatly, upon finding Sansa wherever she'd tried (and failed) to hide herself for the very reason of avoiding yet another lecture by her younger sibling. "Mother is wrong, and _you_ are wrong. One day, you'll be sorry you were awful to him."

It turned out to be a prescient statement, because that day came, and far sooner than anyone might have expected.

And when it came… boy howdy, it _came_.

Kingsland would never be the same.

And for some, that could only be a good thing.

* * *

Podric I

Pod watched, quiet as always, as the dark shape moved along the back of the house. He did not raise any hue or cry— he knew better than that, after fifteen years with first the Lannisters and then the Baratheons after Miz Cersei married Mr. Robert. There was always someone sneaking around, whether it was Mr. Robert and various of the Mexican girls employed on the ranch, or Mr. Jaime coming to visit with Miz Cersei— though that hadn't happened since before Master Tommen had been born, come to think of it— or Master Joffrey slipping out to go to the saloon and rough up a whore or two.

His friend Sam was sweet on one of the girls, Gilly, and she told Sam the worst stories about Joffrey, and Sam told Pod. It was terrible, but Judge Baelish owned the saloon, and Sheriff Clegane was known to be on the Lannister payroll, so everyone knew nothing would happen.

This was different, however. This person was a man, so that eliminated Rosalita and Manuela; shorter than Mr. Jaime, but fitter than Master Joffrey. He moved with purpose, as if he knew exactly where he were going, and came to a stop directly below a particular window.

The window slid open with excruciating slowness. A long masculine leg was thrust from it, then another, and then the rest of the body was lowered down. The person clung to the sill for one heart-stopping moment before dropping to the ground, ten feet below, and rolling.

"You alright?" whispered the sneaking man, reaching down to help the falling man to his feet. He was shorter than the falling man, and his dim silhouette seemed to have curly hair.

"Fine. Everything ready?" The falling man was, if Pod recognized the voice correctly (and he always recognized a voice correctly) that of Renly Baratheon, youngest brother to Mr. Robert and vocal opponent to anything Lannister.

That must mean that sneaking man was no other than Loras Tyrell, long-time favorite and close friend of Mr. Renly. Everyone whispered about the nature of their relationship, and to be honest, Pod did not want to think too closely about what those sly murmurings indicated, but Mr. Renly had always been nice to him, or as nice as a Baratheon ever was to a ranch hand.

It was none of his business, of course, but Pod admitted to a certain amount of… professional curiosity. He lived on the Double B, didn't he, so it concerned him if there were underhanded goings-on. And so silently, stealthily, he followed after the two, all three of them keeping to the shadows.

"Did you tell him?" asked Loras as they hastened down the long drive.

"Yes," replied Renly. A crash sounded from within the house. "He's taking it about as well as expected."

Another crash, this time the tinkling of shattering glass.

"Do you have the letter?" asked Loras.

"Right here." Renly patted the breast of his jacket, indicating its pocket.

"Good. We'll drop it off on our way out of town," Loras said.

Renly let out a sigh. "I don't hate my brother. I love him. I just… don't like him very much."

Loras' grin was a flash of white even in the gloom. "Believe me, I understand."

Pod wondered which of his family he meant; having observed various Tyrells, it was very possible he could be referring to any (or even all) of them. Every one of them had great capacity to be irritating. Though Miss Margaery was somewhat less so than the others. He thought that might be because she was very pretty.

Out on the road, where a dense little copse of trees kept the bright moon from revealing too much, the men mounted up on the two horses that had been tied up there. Back at the house, a woman cried out in pain, loud enough to make Pod flinch even at that distance.

"Should we… tell anyone what's happening?" Loras asked, peering worriedly toward the house.

"Who would we tell?" asked Renly, rhetorically. "Jaime? His presence would not make it better, believe me. Robert is drunk and will only get drunker. He'll get bored and tired and pass out. It will be fine."

But, as Pod was to learn upon his return to the house once Loras and Renly had gone, it was not fine, and never would be again.

* * *

Sansa I

Sansa stood quietly by, hands folded before her, as her fiancé, Joffrey Baratheon, berated Sheriff Clegane.

"You've been wanting a lead for days, Clegane! And now you have one, and won't do anything with it? What does my grandfather pay you for?"

Joffrey thrust the pages of the letter into the sheriff's face, which seemed a perilous risk due not only to the massive difference in size between the two— Joffrey's modest height and sylph-like build in radical contrast to the other man's tall and very robust frame— but the expression on Sheriff Clegane's unlovely face. He was grimacing, the scars making his lips seem to be pulling back to reveal a snarl. It appeared like he was very close to _biting_ Joffrey.

Or perhaps it was not merely the scars… perhaps he really did want to bite Joffrey. Sansa had felt the urge, herself, more than a few times, so she could not blame the sheriff, not one bit.

"I'll do something with it," the sheriff growled, and the deep, rough timber of his voice made Sansa's stomach feel hollow and tight at the same time. Odd. It also gave her the feeling that what he was going to do with the letter was not something Joffrey would enjoy.

"Joff, dear," Sansa began, her voice soft and placating in the way she'd learned from long practice was least likely to make him react poorly. "Perhaps if you would let Sheriff Clegane _see_ the letter, he could use it to—"

Joffrey whipped around to face her with a menacing expression of his own, his hand automatically raised, and Sansa shrank back before he regained control over himself and lowered it once more. He would not forget himself enough to strike her here, in public, but she had gotten so accustomed to trying to evade his wrath in private that she could not hold back a flinch.

A low rumble sounded in the shabby front room of the jail, and Sansa turned her head toward its source to find it was emanating from the beefy chest of Sheriff Clegane himself. She blinked and lifted her eyes from said beefy chest, past the rumpled collar of his shirt and thick dark beard to where his angry, angry eyes— a lovely cool gray, she noticed for the first time— were trying with all their might to eviscerate Joffrey where he stood.

"Your grandfather doesn't pay me enough to stand by while you hit a woman," the sheriff ground out. "If I see you do it, or hear of you doing it, your life won't be worth a nickel. You can count on that."

He snatched the letter from Joffrey.

"Now get the fuck out of my jail."

Sansa found, as she left the jail at Joffrey's side, that she was trembling. In horror of her fiancé's awfulness being revealed to another person, she was sure, or perhaps at the sheriff's crude language and brutish demeanor. She was sure it was one of the two. Perhaps both.

Whichever one it was, it was definitely _not_ because Sheriff Clegane had been angry when Joff had threatened her. It had _nothing_ to do with being defended by a huge, dangerous beast with magnificent shoulders—

Sansa stumbled on the board walk, blaming a nail working its way free of the wood to lurk in wait for the unwitting pedestrian. Joff hauled her upright, his gaze fixed straight ahead and the beautiful angle of his jaw clenched tightly in fury. She thought she'd better escape him while they were still in public, rather than letting herself be led anywhere private that he'd be able to slake his ire on her. She gazed across Main Street to where Margery Tyrell was still stirring up a ruckus in front of the post office.

Robert Baratheon's death a week earlier had thrown the town of Kingsland into chaos. Miz Cersei had presented a fragile-but-brave façade until senile old Doc Pycelle had decided it was a murder, concluding that Robert's head had been bashed in by the hand of another rather than as the result of just tripping and falling while on the tail-end of a three-day whisky bender. It seemed that this decision was the result of Sheriff Clegane commenting, upon observation of the corpse, that the big dent in Robert's skull was rounded and shallow, in the same way as the big smooth river stone serving as a paperweight on his marble-topped desk, rather than sharp and deep as it would have been if he had, as declared by his grieving widow, tripped and struck himself on the corner of said desk.

Miz Cersei had flounced from the doctor's waiting room in an affronted huff. An hour later, unbeknown to anyone else, she had left fled the Baratheon ranch and, even days and days later, had not yet been relocated. Also missing was one Osney Kettleblack, the Double B's foreman and, it was whispered, Miz Cersei's latest 'particular friend'. This left the Baratheon offspring alone on the ranch under the command of the eldest, Joffrey. This in many cases might not be reason to fret, but in view of how Joffrey was unpredictable at best and thoroughly unstable at worst, it provided _plenty_ of reason to fret.

And fret Sansa did. Without Joffrey's parents in charge of the Double B, what would become of it? Not that she cared much what happened to Joff, and since she intended to break their engagement as soon as possible, it wouldn't really affect her, either, but she actually liked Myrcella and Tommen. She didn't want them to suffer because their idiotic elder brother had run the ranch into the ground and left nothing for them to inherit or live on.

Telegrams to San Francisco and Charleston had been sent; Tywin and Tyrion Lannister summoned. Jaime Lannister had left his foreman in charge of the Lannister mines to take his niece and nephews in hand and provide some much-needed stability and adult supervision. He had been seen just once since Miz Cersei had absconded with Kettleblack, and his face had been described as 'dazed' and 'distant' in addition to the usual 'gloriously handsome'.

People whispered and whispered, frantic with curiosity about how Robert had died and who had killed him, but there were no suspects besides Miz Cersei, and with her gone, there was nothing. Telegrams had been sent to all the nearby towns and even a few of the less distant cities, warning authorities in those places to be aware of a woman and man of her and Kettleblack's description, but… no one had any hopes of this helping in the slightest.

Then, just minutes ago, Sansa and Margaery had entered the post office for their daily task of fetching the mail for their respective families. Margaery had high hopes of something from her brother Loras, providing an update to his situation. She had been aware of his dealings with Renly, and awaited only confirmation that they were well and progressing speedily on their journey to France, where they were sure to receive a warmer reception for their particular brand of affection than they might in the stodgy and puritanical United States.

Margaery was mightily surprised, then, that the letter she received was from Renly, and it said little about his journey to Europe with his forbidden lover but much about a certain delicate situation concerning Miz Cersei, her children, and their uncertain parentage. Sure, there had been mutterings over the years, about how little the children resembled their supposed father, and how in certain poses Joffrey was the spit of Jaime twenty years earlier, or how Myrcella bit her lip in the same playful way as her uncle, or how Tommen tilted his head just as Jaime did when pondering something.

It had— mostly— been accounted as natural for the children to resemble him, especially as he was not only their uncle but their mother's twin. Now, however, with the revelation held in the pages of Renly's letter, the truth was out: Jaime was not their uncle but their father, and they had been conceived in lustful incest with his own sister. Renly had witnessed an incriminating scene years earlier, put together a few errant pieces, and drawn a spectacular conclusion.

He had not, however, revealed this conclusion right away, nor for a decade thereafter, feeling it prudent to save his information for such time as he might have need of it. Leverage was always welcome when one dealt with Lannisters, he had found. But then, one the eve of absconding to freedom with his lover, he had felt the need to unburden himself of his secret (or more because Loras would not stop demanding some sort of revenge against Jaime for rebuffing his amorous advances at a certain prior moment, thus causing the younger man a great deal of embarrassment and consternation, in a particularly mocking and cruel fashion.

Thus it was that Renly had revealed everything to Robert. And to add insult to injury, his letter warned that if anything untoward befell Robert after said revelation, the blame was to be placed squarely at the feet of the Lannister twins.

Margaery's appalled shock had drawn Sansa's attention; she had taken the letter, read it, and exclaimed in amazement, drawing Joffrey's attention from where he stood by the stable, admiring Robb Stark's dappled grays with blatant envy. Joff had read the letter and marched right across the street to the sheriff, eager to get Jaime out of the way. He had just gotten free of the restrictions placed upon him by his parents; he'd be damned if some uncle was going to hold him back from what he wished to do. He did not give a fig for the accusation in the letter. The mad claim that Jaime was his father was ludicrous, preposterous, and ultimately would be proven false, but until then, he wanted his uncle prevented from interfering in Joffrey's rightful stewardship of the Double B.

"I must go to Margaery," Sansa said, detaching herself from Joff's side and nimbly dancing out of range of his fists. She was sure her dancing teacher had never imagined all those lessons would be put to this sort of use. "She'll need me to… recover from her shock."

Without giving him time to argue, she turned and hurried back the way they'd come. Her shoulders straightened, losing some of the psychic weight they carried when in Joffrey's presence, and her chin lifted. By the time she was striding past the jail once more, she felt quite herself again, and thus smiled easily when she met the piercing gaze of Sheriff Clegane through his dirty window. He did not smile back, of course, but his eyes followed her as she walked by, and she knew— she _knew_ — that he kept watching her as she crossed the street and approached her friend.

He watched her, too, as she conversed with Margaery, and as they said their farewells, and as her brother Robb helped her into their buggy. Then he watched them ride out of town in the direction of the their ranch, the WF, and Sansa was sure she could feel the touch of his gaze right between her shoulder blades, even through the dust kicked up by their horses as they left Kingsland behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Warning for violence again women.**

* * *

Sansa II

Sansa smoothed her hands down her skirt the fourth time in as many minutes, using the fabric to dry her damp palms, as she waited for Joffrey. He had wanted to take her to lunch in town, but what she wished to say to him could not be done in the middle of the little hotel's restaurant surrounded by the other diners only too eager to eavesdrop in hopes of overhearing some juicy tidbit they could share with everyone else.

Besides, she could not risk being alone with him, not anymore. It had only been a week since his mother's disappearance, but Joffrey's monstrous behavior had just worsened. He could not hit her in company, but he could grip her hand so hard her bones ground together, or pinch her soft flesh wherever it was covered by her clothes, knowing no one else would see the bracelets of round purple marks she wore from wrist to elbow. She had to break their engagement, and she had to do it soon. Already he was pressing to set a wedding date, and for the next few weeks. Sansa knew that if she married him, he would kill her. He wouldn't even bother trying to cover it up, like his mother with Mr. Robert, or point a finger at a specific perpetrator, as Renly had. He wouldn't have to. Between Sheriff Clegane and Judge Baelish, nothing would ever come of any accusations.

Joff's elegant buggy arrived at last, throwing up a cloud of dust as he yanked on the ribbons, uncaring that the bits tore cruelly at the horses' mouths. Sansa heard the murmur of distant voices as he entered the house, growing louder as he approached, and then the door to the parlor opened and he was there, all smiles until it closed again and they were alone. Right away, his face fell into its usual sullen lines.

"Well?" he demanded, looking around. "Don't I even get tea, since you insisted on staying here?"

"Ah," said Sansa, running her palms down her skirt again and beginning to pace, starting a circuit around the perimeter of the room. She passed the settee, rounded a wing chair, stepped alongside a long console table, fingertips dragging over its shining surface. "It's just that… it won't take much time… I only need to tell you… that I am breaking our engagement. I will not marry you."

There was silence behind her, growing and expanding and frightening her so that she couldn't turn to face him. She did not want to see which precise shade of purple Joffrey turned, or the way his beautiful green eyes would light with manic hatred. She kept walking, approaching the secretary where her mother would write invitations and thank-yous and condolences, one foot after the other soundlessly placed on the thick carpet, the only sound in the hushed moment that of Joff's quick, angry breaths.

Then he was right behind her, and she had no time to turn around, and his hand was over her mouth while the other pummeled her, her arm and side and hip and leg and her face, her face, her face. Her vision blurred, misted, darkened, and he released her, and she slipped to the floor, prone. He left her there, behind the settee, and departed without a word. Sansa could hear his voice, pleasant and calm, as he thanked the housekeeper, Nan, for his hat, then the jingle of harness and tack as he climbed back into his buggy. There was the slap of the ribbons on the horses' backs, then the clop of their hooves, and then he was gone.

Sansa was not sure how long she lay there. It felt like a day. It was probably only a few minutes. Speaking was out of the question; she could scarcely breathe unless she kept very still. Blood trickled from her nose, her mouth, from a cut at her temple, forming three distinct little puddles soaking into the rug beneath her, and the only emotion she could manage was a sense of shame that she was ruining the pale wool.

It was Arya who found her, Arya who knew Sansa was ending things with Joff, Arya who couldn't wait until Sansa found her to let her how it had gone. She bounced into the room, door flung open with characteristic unconcern for how the doorknob impacted the paneling, and then there was silence while she took in what appeared to be an empty room.

Sansa had to speak, or who knew how long it would take for someone to find her? But her throat would not work, her mouth was dry as dust. She dragged in the deepest breath she could and managed a moan, the sound making her swollen and torn lips hum with pain.

The silence gained an element of alertness; Arya was listening. Sansa moaned again, louder, as loudly as she could stand. It hurt badly, but it would not last forever. She _had_ to make Arya hear her. She moaned once more.

Footsteps; they flew around the settee and came to a sudden halt. Sansa knew her sister was staring at her in shock and wished she could roll over and look up at her, and wished she could fall through the floor and never been seen again.

"Sansa," Arya breathed. Then, "Mother! Robb! _Mother_!"

She ran to the door, screaming for their family, then darted back to Sansa, crouching by her head, heedless that her knees were right in the blood-soaked splotches on the rug.

"Sansa," she said, the words shaking like an aspen's leaves. "What— what did he— what can I—"

"Arya! What in the world is _wrong_ with you, shouting like you're being murdered—" Catelyn began, cutting herself off when Arya hopped to her feet from behind the settee.

From behind Catelyn, Robb demanded, "What are you doing back there?"

"Sansa is hurt," said Arya. "Robb, go for the doctor."

"Did she take a tumble?" Catelyn tsked, rounding the settee. "I hardly think we need to bother Dr. Pycelle for a bumped knee—"

A heavier tread announced Robb had followed her.

"Shit," he whispered, then, louder, "Shit. Shit!"

It was a testament to Catelyn's upset that she did not correct his lapse into obscenity.

"I'll get the doctor. And the sheriff," he rasped, and then his boots thundered from the room and outside. Shortly thereafter, hoofbeats burst from the barn and faded into the distance toward town.

"My darling," Catelyn crooned, replacing Arya in kneeling at Sansa's head. "My baby, my little girl, my dear love."

Sansa felt the lightest touch, soft as a kitten whisker, over the back of her hand where it lay limp and white at her side. Her nerves were so acutely tuned that even that feather of a touch on an unharmed part sent a frisson of alarm rolling through her. Catelyn jerked her hand away, her breathing as shallow with panic as Sansa's own.

"Arya, go get your father. He and Jory are repairing fence posts out in the back forty. He needs to know that… he needs to know."

Arya's footsteps pattered from the room, and soon more hoofbeats sounded in the yard.

"Mother, what's wrong?" asked Rickon from the vicinity of the doorway.

Sansa made her eyes open, rolled them until they met her mother's, tried to use them to tell her that she did not want her smallest brother seeing her like this.

Catelyn's lips trembled as she struggled to modulate her voice, but she said, "Rickon, I need you to find Nan and have her come to me. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Mother." Rickon's tone was incredulous that she'd doubt him capable of that, but he left.

Sansa let her eyelids fall closed in relief, but then Bran was asking the same thing, from the same place. Again, she used her eyes to mutely plead for discretion.

"Bran, go into the hallway. Help Nan get whatever she tells you," Catelyn commanded. Her hands fluttered around Sansa's head, little white doves in flight; she clearly wanted so desperately to lay them on her daughter, to help, to provide relief, but thankfully she knew they would only bring pain.

Heavy treads and huffing breath announced Nan's arrival; her sucked-in breath, at the sight of Sansa laying so pitiably crumpled on the floor, felt like a tornado funneling wind up to the heavens.

"Gods have mercy," Nan said. "Gods have _mercy_. What should I do, Miz Catelyn? What do you need?"

"Clear everything away from her bed," commanded Catelyn in a low voice. "And anything that might get in the way of carrying her to it. Get sheets and towels, every towel in the house. Boil water. Bring my satchel of medications." She paused and sucked in a breath of her own. "Fetch my shears and finest needles and my best silk thread. Bran will help you."

Nan was gone in an instant, barking orders to Bran and then to Rickon, and soon footsteps were running all over the house in a frenzy to acquire everything needed, to be ready as soon as the doctor arrived.

Robb came back not long after that. They skidded their horses to a stop outside the house and clomped inside.

"Mother?" Robb called from the foyer. "We're here."

Catelyn lurched to her feet and stepped away from Sansa so the doctor could approach.

"Oh, dear," muttered Dr. Pycelle. He awkwardly got to his knees, heedlessly staining his trousers in the same puddles that Arya had. "Oh, my dear, how terrible." He was mostly a useless drunk, but even he could have the significance of a serious situation impressed upon him. "Can you speak?"

No, she could not. Her mother answered for her.

"I don't think she can," said Catelyn, her voice quavering with fear and anger and upset.

A low rumbling sound started up, from far above Sansa. It sounded like an angry god was grumbling down from the heavens. Who would be so angry at what Joffrey had done to her? The Father, certainly; He hated injustice. The Warrior? He despised cowardice, and what else was it, for a man to strike a woman so?

"Sheriff?" Robb said, sounding puzzled.

 _Ah, yes,_ that's what that sound was, and why it was familiar: it was Sheriff Clegane, and he was growling now as he had back at his jail, when Joff had raised his hand to her. It suddenly seemed very, very funny, that such a mean-looking man, so capable of mayhem with his tallness and hamlike fists and those _shoulders,_ would be so opposed to violence against her, but a puny little beanpole like Joff, who looked like he could barely knock over a corn stalk, could so easily indulge in it.

"Is she… smiling?" asked Catelyn, sounding mystified.

"I think that's unlikely," replied Dr. Pycelle, an ocean of understatement in his tone. He clearly felt the magnitude of her injuries precluded amusement about anything, and he was probably right; only a madwoman would find something funny at a moment like that, but the more Sansa thought about it, the funnier it became. She couldn't laugh, not really, but she began to giggle, little pained hiccups that made tears of pain roll down her cheeks and thin out the blood under her face, turning all the red to pink.

A creak as the doctor's ancient satchel was open, rusty hinges protesting, and then a little glass bottle was being held to Sansa's lips.

"We must move you, my girl," he said, "but you must take some poppy milk, first."

Sansa made her seized jaw muscles slacken, but could not hold back a whimper when Dr. Pycelle had to use his fingers to part her lips so he could pour the poppy milk between them.

At her feet, the growling grew louder.

"Sheriff, perhaps it would be best if you waited outside—" began Catelyn.

 _No_. Sansa did not want him to leave. What if Joffrey came back? Her mother and the doctor were no obstacle, not at all, and Robb was so… decent. He would fight fair, and Joffrey would mop the floor with him, all trickery and slyness.

Sheriff Clegane would not fight fair.

"Nnooo," she managed. "Shfff."

"No what? No what, my darling?" prompted her mother. Catelyn was on her knees at Sansa's head once more, squashed between Dr. Pycelle and the settee, but she curled in on herself until her ear was right by her daughter's mouth. "What, Sansa?"

"Shhfff," Sansa repeated. "Shhfff _stay_."

She managed that last word so clearly, she felt a flash of pride in herself.

There was a shocked little pause, and then Catelyn said, "I think… she wants the sheriff to stay."

"Yyesss," Sansa said, and hiccupped another giggle. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ , and so funny, he was such a huge brute of a man, and she only felt safe because he was in the room, despite being surrounded by her mother and brother and the doctor and Nan and, oh, was that Bran? And Rickon? So many people, so many, and it was only Sheriff Clegane that kept her back from the thin edge of panic.

"I think the poppy milk is working now," said Dr. Pycelle. "How would be best to move her?"

"Shift the settee," said the sheriff. "Then I'll carry her."

"I really don't think—" began Catelyn, but stopped suddenly. Sansa imagined that Sheriff Clegane had shot her with one of his glares. She'd once seen him make a too-drunk Greyjoy, molesting various women on Main Street with abandon one fine afternoon, wet himself just by glaring at him with those cold gray eyes.

Except they hadn't seemed all that cold, that day last week, at the jail.

And they didn't seem cold _at all_ after the doctor and Catelyn carefully rolled her to her back, and the sheriff knelt by her side. He looked down at her with a barely-banked rage so scorching she expecting to feel her skin burning to a crisp when he slid his arms under her battered form.

But no, there was no scorching, only a warmth that felt soothing through her clothes, against her bruises, noticeable even past the pain that reared its head over the cloudy bulwark of the poppy milk. With exquisite slowness, and a delicacy surprising in a man of his size, he rose from knees to feet so smoothly she didn't feel a thing differently, no jolt or shift at all.

"Where?" he demanded, his voice a rumble like rocks tumbling around in a cellar.

"Follow me," said Catelyn, and then they were moving.

Sansa's head lolled against his shoulder, her forehead coming to rest against his throat, leaving a smear of red behind. She wondered how he smelled, wishing her nose wasn't full of drying blood so she could take a discreet sniff.

 _Plenty of time for that later,_ she thought. _Another day, when I_ _'m not dying, maybe._ It made her giggle-hiccup again, and ache some more, and she felt her tears wet his shirt, making it cling to his collarbone where it jutted up against her cheek. It hurt terribly, but maybe it was worth it, to feel so weightless as he carried her. He didn't groan as Robb had, the last time her brother had lifted her, nor did he breathe heavily as Father the last time he had.

It was as if it were effortless to him, as if she were as light as that kitten whisker to him, and maybe she was. Maybe the sheriff could lift _anything_ , maybe he could lift the entire world. She had heard a story about that, hadn't she? An ancient tale of a man who held the globe on his back.

"Aatlllassss," she forced her lips to say, and made her eyes open. "Atlas."

He looked down, at that, and their eyes met, and Sansa felt as if he had shot her with his gaze as he had shot her mother, except he wasn't glaring at her, no, he was _staring_ , staring like he meant to count every one of her eyelashes, and that was a funny idea, too. When she could move again, she'd count her eyelashes, and ask what number he had, and compare the two, see if they matched.

"Here, Sheriff," Catelyn prompted, sounding impatient, and Sansa realized they were in her room, by her bed, and wondered how long he'd been holding her like that, just standing there with her in his arms.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, Sheriff Clegane lowered her down. She'd become used to the pressure of his arms under her back and knees, but the touch of the feather-stuffed mattress and plumped heap of pillows against the rest of her made her hiss.

"Sorry," he muttered, and he _looked_ sorry, looked gutted at the idea he'd hurt her somehow. Oh, he was kind, unexpectedly so, and the knowledge of it brought tears to her eyes in a way the pain had not.

"No," she told him, very seriously. It was very important that he know it wasn't his fault. "Not you."

He slid his arms out from under her and stood. Looming over her, like that, he should have looked intimidating, should have had her on the verge of wetting herself like an unruly Greyjoy, but instead he just looked powerful, like a sentinel, like the Warrior Himself, there to keep her from harm.

"Who was it, then, Miss Sansa?" he asked, so very gently, and she felt like crying some more, so she did. She tried to speak— it would only take one name, a single word— but her throat was so dry, the taste of blood so strong in her mouth, that she could only rasp a breath past her vocal chords this time.

"Here, love," said Catelyn, and bustled over with a glass of cool water. Sansa could not easily swallow, and most of it went down her chin to soak her blouse, but the scant mouthful she managed did the trick. She opened her mouth to speak, but the front door crashed open with a violence unusual even for the boisterous Stark household.

"Mother!" shrieked Arya. Her footsteps thundered down the hall. "Mother!"

"Here!" called Catelyn, hurrying to the door. "What's wrong? Where's your father?"

"He's dead!" Arya cried. "I found him— I found Jory— they were by the fence, they were shot, they're dead, they're dead!"

There was a gasp, and then a thud, and Sansa knew her mother had fainted. Dread froze her heart, a pain far worse than anything Joff had done to her.

"No," moaned Sansa. "No, no."

"Show me," said Sheriff Clegane. He looked down at Sansa one last time, some strange expression flickering across his craggy, ruined features, and then followed Arya from the room.

The mattress shifted. Robb placed Catelyn's unconscious form next to Sansa's on the bed.

"Nan, help the doctor," he commanded. His voice was thick-sounding, clogged, and Sansa knew he was trying to keep from crying. "I'm going with them."

"Yes, Master Robb," said Nan, unshed tears thick in her voice, too.

Sansa could not stop the wail rising in her throat, even knowing how terribly it would hurt, but it clawed its way free. She keened in agony, unsure if it were her injuries or her grief making it so bad, but then gentle hands were holding her down, and the doctor was pouring more poppy milk into her mouth, and her wailing tapered to more moaning, and then her view of the ceiling over her bed, with its cracked paint, narrowed to a pinpoint, black all around, and then she—


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Hope you like it, thanks for reading! Let me know what you think :)**

* * *

Tyrion I

"Telegram fer yeh."

Bronn's dulcet tones, a mad combination of gutter Irish and Five Points slum, woke Tyrion Lannister from his morning stupor. He forced his bleary gaze to where his valet was ruthlessly flinging aside the heavy velvet drapes that were all that stood between Tyrion and the unmerciful glare of the sun.

"Where?" he croaked, struggling to sit up in his bed. It was far bigger than Tyrion needed— bigger, even, than a half-dozen Tyrions would need, given his petite frame— but he always felt he should comport himself for the size he _felt_ like rather than the size he _was_. And he felt like a man of considerable stature, indeed.

"On the coffee tray," said Bronn, jerking his chin toward where he'd placed it at the corner of the bed. He remained by the window, squinting out at the world, while Tyrion reached over and grasped the yellow rectangle of paper.

"TO TYRION LANNISTER STOP ROBERT MURDERED STOP CERSEI MISSING STOP JAIME ARRESTED STOP EXPECT YOU ON NEXT TRAIN TO KINGSLAND STOP FIX EVERYTHING TO MY SATISFACTION STOP DO NOT CONTACT ME WITHOUT RESULTS STOP FROM TYWIN LANNISTER STOP?" Tyrion read aloud, his voice pitching higher and higher in amazement and alarm until he was nearly squeaking. "What in the all the hells is going _on_ in Texas?"

He hopped out of bed and made directly for his dressing room, Bronn following at a leisurely pace.

"I need a valise!"

"Packed."

"We have to buy train tickets!"

"Bought."

"Where are my clothes?"

"Laid out."

"I must send a telegram back so Father knows I got it."

"Done."

"And another to Kingsland so they know I'm on my way."

"Sent."

"Tell the housekeeper to shut up the place while we're gone!"

"Already did."

"And the mail is being held?"

"Yeah."

"Milk and newspaper delivery stopped?"

"Yeah."

"Carriage ready to go?"

"Yeah."

Tyrion finished dressing, alternating a garment with a huge bite of breakfast or gulp of coffee and finishing all at the same time.

"Bronn, you're a treasure."

"I know. You should pay me more."

"Let's not get carried away."

"Cheap cunt."

"Yes, yes…"

They climbed into the carriage and were whisked away to the train station. Within minutes they were settled into their private compartment and heading westward from Charleston, Tyrion's mind a-whirl from the telegram. He desperately wished he had more details. It would take over a week to get to Kingsland: west from Charleston to Atlanta, to Birmingham, to Jackson, to Shreveport, to Dallas, then south to Austin before taking the smaller local train west once more to Kingsland.

"Thank god Kingsland has its own station," he muttered, not relishing the idea of taking a coach for the final leg of their trip.

Bronn only grunted noncommittally; the man couldn't have cared less where they went, as long as he were being compensated for it. Tyrion often had to stifle the urge to take Bronn somewhere truly bizarre, just to see if there were anywhere his valet would actually balk at. He suspected no such place existed; Bronn was equally at ease in a ballroom at the Ritz or the worst ghetto known to mankind. And usually the most dangerous man in either.

"What do you think happened?" Tyrion asked him.

Bronn's pale eyes swiveled from where he'd been gazing out the window at the quick-passing countryside to focus on Tyrion, who suppressed a shudder to be pinned by such a cold stare. He himself was a cold bastard as well, but in a rather more abstract way: he could commit many foul misdeeds from a distance, but up-close and in person… no. That was what he had Bronn for.

"I think Robert found out his wife an' her brother were fooking, tried to kill 'er, Jaime killed _him,_ and got caught."

Tyrion blinked. "I… I don't think they've been fucking for several years, now," he said weakly. "Jaime said he ended it when she fell pregnant with Tommen… she lied, saying she'd made it so she couldn't conceive again, and he could no longer take her word or risk even more children—"

"Daft cow told him that, the other two times as well, why would she mean it the t'ird?" interrupted Bronn. "Yer brother's a fooking eejit."

"Yes," agreed Tyrion sadly, and sighed. The gods knew he was no saint— "Did you cancel my next few appointments with Shae?" he asked Bronn, who smirked and nodded before looking back out the window— but at least he knew not to dip his wick in a) family and/or b) women who could not be trusted to keep their wombs unoccupied.

Jaime was truly a fool for love. Tyrion turned his attention to how Charleston swiftly receded into the distance, and hoped that this time, his brother would be able to recover from the catastrophe his weakness had wrought.

* * *

Jon I

Jon's weary horse stopped at the crest of the ridge overlooking Kingsland, and even though he was tired, himself, and eager to get home, he didn't urge Ghost to continue right away, giving himself a moment to enjoy the vista splayed out before him.

It had been a long drive back from St. Louis, made longer by some heavy rains causing the Colorado to flood and forcing Jon and the other men to adjust course. Instead of their usual straightforward route, they'd had to make a time-wasting zigzag out of Oklahoma into Arkansas, skirting around the Osage reservation where he liked to stop for a night or two to spend time with Ygritte, a particular friend he had made during the course of his frequent drives.

Not being able to snatch his rare occasional evening with Ygritte had put him in a sour mood. It wasn't like he had any options for feminine companionship in Kingsland, his options restrained to the ladies of the town, none of whom would have anything to do with him, or Baelish's girls at the saloon. But he had never been comfortable with the idea of paying someone to lay with him, no matter how his friend Sam said it was nice. But the only girl he could bear the idea of being with was Gilly, since she was so sweet and he knew she was clean, but the way Sam felt about her... the idea of Sam's round face crumpled in betrayal, to learn Jon had been with Gilly, doused any trace of arousal Jon might have felt about it.

He knew he had no future with Ygritte, no more than he had with the Kingsland ladies. Her father was a very proud and prominent warrior in their tribe, and the idea of his fierce daughter wed to a half-white, half-Mexican bastard was hardly the life he'd imagined for Ygritte. So Jon resigned himself to seeing her a few times a year and counted himself lucky to have even that.

Judging Ghost to be recovered from his climb up the ridge, Jon nudged him into a canter that would take him around the town to the road leading to the Northpoint. At the fork in the road where one had to either cross the Colorado or follow as it curled and wound its way across the plains, he bade farewell to the others.

Garlan Tyrell and Dickon Tarly were fine fellows, and made for good companions on the long drive. But Theon Greyjoy only rode herd because he hadn't the stomach to be a highwayman like his brothers and uncles. He spent every evening obliterated with drink, and every day bemoaning his folly of the night before. Bronze Yohn, who drove for the Arryns, and the two sullen jackasses driving for the Double B, Meryn Trant and Boros Blount, kept themselves apart, glowering and cheerless the entire time.

Jon directed Ghost to the bridge arching over the river, with Blount and Trant not far behind. This side of it, there were only a few claims. The Starks' Northpoint Ranch and the Baratheon's Double B were the two largest cattle operations in the county. Crossing the creek to the south of the Northpoint would bring a person to the Tarth claim. The Tarths hadn't contributed to the drive this season; no surprise, now that Galladon was gone, and Mr. Tarth laid up. Jon wondered how much longer Brienne would be able to hold off before finding a way to drive her cattle to St. Louis.

He'd seen her ride herd; she was just as good as any man, or even better, but it was a terrible idea for her to go along with a half-dozen men. He had no worries about himself or Dickon or Garlan or even Theon, who'd doubtless be too soused to do anything worrisome, but the other three… you'd have to be a fool to think those three would be anything but problems to a lone woman on a drive. And Jon was no fool.

He doubted she could afford to hire someone to drive the herd in her stead, like Dickon and Theon had hired themselves out to the Tullys and the Targaryen girl respectively. Jon made a mental note to mention it to his father. The Tarths didn't have so many head that it would be a terrible hardship to bring them along with the Stark cattle, and Bran at twelve was well old enough to join them for his first drive.

He turned right at the road's next fork, leaving the other two behind, and trotted through the gate under the sign proclaiming the land was Northpoint Ranch, property of the Starks. For all that Catelyn did what she could to make him unwelcome, Jon loved coming home. The Northpoint was in his blood the same as it was in Robb's and Arya's and Rickon's. Sansa and Bran, they were different, they could live in town just as well as on the ranch, but he and the other three had grown up from the very dirt.

He let out a sigh as the first outbuildings came into view. It was late, the sunlight slanted and golden over the long grasses blowing in the wind, and he couldn't decide if he wanted a bath or supper first. It wouldn't be the big copper tub in the big house's bathing room, and it wouldn't be the refined supper with bread and vegetables and wine that people named Stark got to enjoy. No, for him, just like the rest of the hands, it would be a shallow tin pan in the barn with the stink of horse shit warring for dominance with the smell of the lard-and-lye soap that was all he was allowed. And supper would be some form of hashed-up meat with beans, washed down by beer. But both would still be satisfying after a hard few weeks.

Jon wasn't sure what he expected, but a trio of fat Manderlys, the town's carpenters, hauling a coffin from their somber black wagon was not it. His heart gave a hard thump of alarm as he slid off Ghost and tossed the reins to the nearest hand. He spotted Rickon lurking on the front porch, far enough away not to get trampled by Manderlys but close enough to see everything.

"Rickon," he called to the boy, walking up the steps and going to him. "What's happened?"

Rickon's gaze shifted from the coffin carried by on the shoulders of the Manderlys, a glossy chestnut case with brass handles, to Jon.

"Is it Nan?" he pressed when his brother didn't reply. Nan was old and only getting older; Jon had been resigned for a few years, by then, to her passing at some soon moment.

Rickon shook his head. "Father," he said tonelessly. "Father died. And Jory."

Jon felt the blood drain from his head, and little silver dots appeared in his vision. He reached out and clamped his hand around the porch railing. Once he was steady again, he strode into the house, calling for Robb, but it was Arya who responded, darting from the parlor and into his arms.

"Jon, it's awful," she exclaimed. "Father's dead, and Jory, and Sansa's been _beaten_ , and—"

"What? When?" The dots threatened to make another appearance. Jon tightened his hold on his sister. "How?" He felt like every question, ever, rose to his lips and fought to be free. "Where's Robb?"

"Here," said Robb, and Jon turned to find his other brother at the parlor entrance. Robb leaned heavily against the door frame, as if unable to stand upright without the support. "It all happened this morning."

"Robb, what—"

"Sansa broke her engagement to Joff Baratheon. He beat the shit out of her for it. Then on the way home, he saw Father and Jory mending the fences between us and the Double B and decided Sansa wasn't enough. He shot them both through the head."

Jon could only blink at him for a few long moments, waiting for the words to start making sense. Once they did, he felt a wave of heat— pure rage— roll through him, so fiercely his fingers and toes tingled from the force of it.

"Where's Mr. Robert through all of this? And Miz Cersei?"

"Mr. Robert's dead, too, a week ago, now," said Arya. "And Cersei's gone missing, as soon as people started to think maybe she was the one who did it."

" _Did_ she do it?"

"Wouldn't put it past her," said Robb with a shrug. None of them had liked the supercilious bitch. They'd barely liked Mr. Robert, in fact, but he'd been Father's closest friend— somehow— so they tolerated the Baratheons as a necessarily evil to being a Stark. Or almost-Stark, in Jon's case. Sansa's blind affection for Joffrey, based entirely on his improbably handsome appearance, had been to the chagrin of her siblings, all of whom had placed bets on when, specifically, she would wise up to the reality of his awfulness and dump him.

Jon felt a bleak satisfaction in the midst of all the horror; looked like he'd won the bet, because he'd had a dollar on her breaking it off before he returned from St. Louis.

"Let's go get him, then," he said. There was no point in going to Sheriff Clegane; he'd been in the Lannisters' pocket since before his appointment as Kingsland's peacekeeper. There'd be no justice for Starks but what they took for themselves.

"The sheriff is in the parlor right now, asking all the servants and hands questions. He's going to _investigate_ ," said Arya, her tone heavy with sarcasm. "Says no one saw Joffrey do it, and he can't arrest anyone without three things… what were they, Robb? Motive, proof, and…"

"Probable cause," replied Robb. "Never stopped him before, but I think we know why he's such a stickler, this time around."

Jon thought back to various times people had been blamed for infractions against Lannisters or Baratheons without a lick of proof… and how Joffrey had been skating by without repercussions for years despite copious evidence provided by the ladies working at Baelish's saloon.

"Why is he bothering?" he asked. "You can't tell me he cares that Father and Jory are dead."

Just saying the words, thinking the thought— _Father is dead_ — made his chest feel like it had been pried open and hollowed out. Ned Stark was— had been— the only person Jon knew was _his_. His siblings… he loved them, but Ned had _made_ him. Without knowledge of his mother, and Ned gone… who was he, really?

"He doesn't," Robb was answering. "But he doesn't truck with woman-beaters. You wouldn't believe the sound he made when he saw what Joff had done to Sansa."

Jon forced a deep breath to stay calm. "How is she?"

"Bruised rib, mild concussion, busted lip, black eye, and bruises from head to knee," Arya recited grimly.

"I want to see her." Jon and Sansa were not close— she imitated her mother a bit too much for that— but she was still his sister.

Robb stepped aside and Jon went to Sansa's room. It had that hushed, still feel of a sickroom, where everyone was terrified of making noise, and the sweet smell of poppy milk lingered thick in the air. Sansa lay in her bed, covers drawn up to her chin so only her face was revealed, but what Jon could see was the stuff of nightmares.

Bruises bloomed, violet and blue, across the right side of her face and down her neck, and the skin split over the bone of her temple had been neatly stitched closed, the white silk floss gleaming sallow against her face from the late afternoon sunlight pushing through the window. Her eyes were closed, and the veins of her fragile eyelids stood out against the pallor of her skin as if someone had drawn them on with blue ink.

Jon knew, then, the way 'horror-stricken' felt, standing frozen in the doorway. His stomach rebelled. Sansa wasn't the warmest person, not to him, but she was family, and a woman. To do such a thing was monstrous. He burned for vengeance.

Catelyn, at her bedside, looked up from her vigil of prayer, and saw Jon. Her face underwent a frightening transition, from abject misery to feral rage, in the space of a heartbeat.

"Get out of here!" she hissed from between bared teeth, standing, looking like she'd fly at him at any moment. Jon drew away, bumping into Robb at his back. "You don't belong here!"

"Mother!" exclaimed Arya.

The familiar sensation of rejection lanced through his belly, and then he was furious. He'd just come back from a three-week cattle drive— to benefit _her_ and her kin, not himself— to find his father dead, and his sister terribly hurt, and now this?

"I have just as much right to be here as your children," he hissed back. "I'm just as much Ned Stark's son as Robb or Bran or Rickon."

"I want you gone," Catelyn continued, as if Jon had not said a word. "Get off this ranch!"

"No," Sansa mumbled from the bed, and they all whipped around to see her. She had woken from the commotion, and gazed blearily at the angry knot of people by the door. Her eyes settled on Jon. " 'M glad Jon's here."

And she tried to _smile_ at him. It was ghastly, and brave, and he felt a rush of affection for his haughty sister that he was used to feeling only for the others. The blanket moved in the vicinity of her hips, and he realized she was trying to extract her hand.

Arya darted around Catelyn and peeled back the covers. Sansa lifted her hand toward Jon, a bare inch from the mattress, but it was enough. He approached, sat in the chair pulled close to the bed, and took her hand in his. Behind him, Catelyn gobbled like an enraged turkey.

"Mother, no," said Robb. "You've been waiting for years to get rid of Jon, but the ranch is mine, now, and I won't have it. He's my brother, just like Rickon and Bran are my brothers, and I won't let you run him off."

Catelyn's eyes darted around the room from child to child, then glanced at the door, where Bran and Rickon stood, watching.

"We've just lost Father. We can't lose Jon, too," added Bran. "We need him. We need everyone."

"He's our brother, too," Rickon said.

"It's wrong, Mother," intoned Arya. She stood at the foot of the bed, her face blank but her eyes cold.

"Wrong," agreed Sansa. "Ours."

With a wordless cry of frustration, Catelyn stalked from the room as hard as her dainty feet could manage. It still wasn't much. In the distance, a door slammed.

Sansa's hand trembled in Jon's grasp. He felt the faintest pressure, and realized she was trying to reassure and comfort him by squeezing his fingers, and moisture flooded his eyes.

"We'll get Joffrey," he promised her. "He won't get away with this, Sansa, I promise you. I don't care if he's got the sheriff in his back pocket, or the judge, we'll—"

"You'll what?" rasped a voice from the door. Jon turned to see Sheriff Clegane himself looming in the doorway behind the young ones. "I don't hold with vigilantes, boy."

"I'm not a boy." Jon tried to stand, but Sansa found some hidden cache of strength and refused to let go of his hand. Short of tearing free of her, he had to remain sitting.

"Don't," she said, looking from him to the sheriff. "Please."

"I thought you left," Robb said, his tone short.

"Just finished talking to the last hand."

"Anyone see anything?"

"No." Pause. "I'm going. Let me know if anyone comes forward with something."

He turned to leave, but then stopped. Didn't turn back around, but said, "I'm not in anyone's back pocket. Not about this."

Then he was gone, his steps receding into the distance. Robb and Arya exchanged a glance with each other, then with Jon.

"That was peculiar," Arya muttered.

"I'm going to keep an eye on him," said Robb. "I don't trust him."

"How?" Jon asked him. "You… you have the ranch to run."

 _Now that Father isn_ _'t here to do it_ , he left unsaid, but they all heard it as clearly as if he had.

"I'll help!" said Arya, eagerly. They all knew she'd do anything to get out of her last year of school.

Robb forced a grin. "Sure you will." Then he looked at Jon. "You'll help, too." When Jon was silent, Robb continued, "…won't you? I need you, Jon. Bran was right. We all need you. The ranch needs you. I don't know why Father let Mother be so unkind to you, all these years, but… it won't be like that. Not anymore. I want you to move into the main house. You shouldn't be bunking with the hands, like you're not family."

"You can have Bran's room!" exclaimed Rickon. "He'll move in with me!"

Bran, looking amused at being volunteered, said, "I'll go shift my things into Rickon's room."

They all stared at Jon in expectation. He felt his throat tighten beyond the point of speaking, so he just nodded.

When Jon left the house, it was at the same time as the second coffin, Jory's, was being carried out to the Manderlys' wagon. They would carry both caskets to their shop, where they had a room specifically for such a thing, and in the morning would bring them to the church for the funeral. Jon pushed his grief down deep and trudged to the bunkhouse.

He hadn't much, so it didn't take long to shove his things into an empty feed sack and transport it to the house, where he found Bran had duly vacated his former room, leaving it for Jon, while Catelyn glared razor-sharp daggers. He ignored her.

"I've been thinking," said Bran as he helped Jon fold and put away his clothing in the bureau and Arya and Robb remade the bed with fresh linens. "Sansa will want to go to the funeral, tomorrow."

They all stopped and looked at each other.

"She'll be sore and the poppy milk makes her dizzy, but we can't carry her all over like a bag of potatoes," said Arya, ever-practical. "The only one who can is the sheriff, and that's just…"

She trailed off, her expression disturbed.

"Exactly," Bran said, very patiently, letting them know that was exactly his point. "So I thought we could ask Miz Brienne if we could borrow Mr. Selwyn's wheeled chair."

"I'll go ask her tomorrow, first thing," Arya offered. "I know she'll say yes."

Supper was odd, eating with the rest of the family, except for Catelyn, who ate alone in her room in protest. The empty chairs on either end of the table kept drawing everyone's gaze, especially Ned's at the head. The food was good— far better than mystery meat and beans— but Jon was very glad when it was over. He had a quick bath in cold water, not wanting to bother heating the water, and fell into bed, his body aching for rest, and fell asleep right away in spite of the disturbance of his thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

Brienne I

Brienne had just finished the washing up after breakfast when she heard a wagon rattle down the drive. Morning chores had been done before sunrise, even— after so many years of doing it, she could her way around the barn blindfolded. Drying her hands on a tea towel, she wandered out onto the front porch and found Arya Stark careening into the yard between their modest house and equally modest barn, a young woman sitting next to her on the wagon's buckboard, hand clamped to her head to hold her mantilla on.

Brienne had heard of the deaths of Ned Stark and Jory Cassel during the previous day's trip into town for the mail. She had been upset by it, not only because Sansa was her closest friend, but because they were both fine men, always kind to her and her family. She had not heard of Sansa's injuries, however, and when Arya revealed the purpose of her visit, Brienne sat down hard on the front steps, shocked.

"Of course," she said numbly. "Let me go ask Pa, I'm sure he'll say yes."

"I brought Claudia to sit with him while we were at the funeral," said Arya.

"You're very kind," Brienne said to the girl. "Thank you."

"I am happy to help," said Claudia in her soft, Spanish-accented English.

Brienne bid her to enter the house, and quickly explained the situation to her father. He agreed right away that Sansa needed his chair more than he did, that day. Brienne took a few minutes to make sure it was scrupulously clean, and greased the wheels, even polishing the wood and rubbing a little neat's foot oil into the leather upholstery. It wouldn't do for Sansa, or her conveyance, to look shabby on the day of her father's funeral. Once tidied to her satisfaction, she hoisted it into the wagon Arya had brought.

Spiffing up the chair meant Brienne had less time to dude herself up, but since that was a lost cause, it made little difference. She switched her rough trousers and one of Galladon's old shirts and beat-up boots for a severe black skirt, black half-boots, and white shirtwaist pinned at the high throat with a jet cameo of her mother's. Her hair, hip-long and moon-pale, was braided into a tight plait, then wound into a tighter bun, jabbed full of so many pins to hold it there that Brienne felt as if her head was bristling like a porcupine. Her hair did not enjoy being constrained, and more than once, she had contemplated hacking it all off. It was only her father's insistence that it reminded him of her mother's, and he did miss her so, that kept Brienne from indulging in the impulse.

She stuffed another paper of hair pins into her reticule, knowing she'd lose half of them on the ride into town and would have to take a moment before entering the church to ensure her plait wasn't listing to starboard or falling down entirely.

They left Pa sitting in his rocking chair on the porch while Claudia settled onto the porch swing, knitting, and soon were hurtling down the drive in the direction of the Northpoint.

"She looks terrible," Arya shouted over the clatter of the iron-bound wheels over stones and the clopping of horse hooves. "Be prepared. If you cry, she'll start crying, and it hurts her chest. So don't cry."

"I won't cry," Brienne promised, but proved herself a liar because the moment she entered Sansa's room, pushing the chair ahead of her, and glimpsed her friend's injuries, she burst into tears.

"I'm better today," Sansa told her even as tears cascaded down her cheeks and she winced with each breath. "I can walk, it's just the poppy milk, I flop all over."

She used her left hand to pat at her cheeks with a handkerchief since her right was bound closely to her side to support her bruised rib. She couldn't wear a corset, but was unable to fit into her own frocks without one, so she was in one of Catelyn's gowns, a chocolate-brown crepe that deepened the tone of her hair to russet and made her eyes seem even more blue, like the hard bright sky overhead that very moment. That hair and those eyes were shockingly lovely against the mess of her face, bruises stark against its pallor.

"Are you sure you should go?" Brienne asked hesitantly, after giving her nose a good honk in her own handkerchief, a big plain square three times the size of Sansa's dainty, lace-edged scrap. "Everyone will stare, and whisper…"

She knew intimately what it was like to be gawked at like an oddity or a horror.

"Let them," Sansa said fiercely. "Let them see what Joffrey did to me. Let everyone know what the Lannisters have gotten away with, all these years. I'm not going to miss my fa-father's fu-fu-funeral…"

She stopped and wept a bit more, and Brienne joined her.

"Arya says Brienne is here—" said Robb as he came to the door, knocking briefly on the frame to announce himself. "Ah, hello." He gave her a tight smile of welcome, which she returned. She knew he didn't want to hear "I'm sorry" yet again, so she settled for conveying her sorrow with her eyes, and his smile widened, just a little, understanding. "Thank you for the loan of the chair, it will be helpful."

"Of course," said Brienne. "Anything I can do…"

"You can help me get Sansa from the bed to the chair, and then from the chair up into the carriage." Robb knew that Brienne did not shy away from exertion or lifting. She had always appreciated how he didn't try to treat her as fragile just because she was a woman.

Together, they supported Sansa to stand, pivot, and sit again. Outside, Brienne and Robb simply hoisted the chair down the few steps to the yard to where Jon waited with the wagon.

"We're going early to make sure we have enough time, since we'll only go at a walk so Sansa doesn't get jostled." He gestured to where he'd filled the back of their wagon with straw, then covered it with blankets, and the smile he aimed at his sister was warmer than Brienne was used to seeing from him; clearly, the incidents of the last few days had caused some other changes in the Stark family. "Miz Catelyn will take Bran, Arya, and Rickon in the surrey, and the help will come in the other wagon."

"I feel like a queen," said Sansa, attempting humor as she stood, pivoted once more, and sat on the wagon's lowered tailgate.

"In you get, Your Majesty," quipped Robb, and they shared tiny smiles.

Brienne climbed into the wagon and, with an apology, put her hands under Sansa's bottom so she could shift her friend into place without grasping her injured torso. It worked a treat, and soon Sansa was deposited on her throne of straw, Brienne at her side, sweat prickling her back and between her meager breasts and her bun already threatening to topple. Robb and Jon climbed onto the buckboard, Robb clucked at the horses to go, and off they went at a glacial pace.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Brienne asked, deciding to take down her plait on her own instead of waiting for it to collapse. Perhaps she could salvage some of the hairpins; they were darned expensive, and she had to make every penny count.

"No, thank you," said Sansa with exquisite politeness, and Brienne nodded, unbothered. She was not one to share her feelings, herself, so she understood.

"Glad you're back safe," she said to Jon, tilting her head back to direct to comment up to him in front of her. "No problems?"

"Thank you," he said, flashing her one of his brief little smiles. "No problems. Wish I'd come back to…" He trailed off, at a loss for words. "Not this," he concluded.

The Starks had been kind and helpful in their quiet way when first Mama and Galladon had died; she had an idea of what they could be comfortable with.

They rode in silence the rest of the journey into town, the only sounds the susurrus of the wind through the meadows' tall grass and how the wagon's wheels would grate against pebbles they rode over. The rest of the Starks overtook them just as they entered town, and Brienne suppressed a shiver at the icy look Catelyn aimed at Jon as she deftly steered the surrey past them with an insolent little cloud of dust. The wagon with the ranch hands and servants was following right behind. Most of the townspeople stopped what they were doing, as if by prior arrangement, to watch their short little parade as it made its way down Main Street to the church at the far end, where Reverend Brother awaited them for the funeral.

Other mourners began to arrive, more and more surreys and buggies and wagons pulling up and disgorging their black-clad occupants. Ned Stark, and even the honest, hard-working Jory Cassel, had earned much admiration and respect in their years, and it was touching to see how very many people were there to recognize their lives.

 _Unless it was more from morbid curiosity than recognition,_ Brienne allowed as she shifted Sansa back to the tailgate and clambered down, uncomfortably aware of how very many eyes were fixated on the spectacle they provided. The gasps of shock, at the sight of Sansa's poor face and how it took two people to get her from the wagon to the chair— that she needed a wheeled chair in the first place, that she was unable to walk unassisted— just kept coming, one after the other.

Then there were the whispers. About Sansa— mostly about her face, lamenting the distortion of her beauty and speculating if she'd be permanently marred, and wasn't that a shame, as if there weren't more to her but how pretty she was— and about Jon, and Robb's new burdens as owner of the Northpoint, and Arya's lack of girlish appeal, and Catelyn's frosty appearance making it seem as if she weren't bothered in the least to have lost her husband of nearly a quarter-century.

And, of course, about Brienne herself: even though these people had known her for almost fifteen years, knew her father, had known her brother and mother, _still_ they exclaimed about her height, her paleness, her freckles, her plainness. She wondered when the shock of Brienne being Brienne would finally sink in and they'd no longer be so amazed that she could possibly exist.

Once Sansa was situated in the chair, the Starks grouped up and approached the church en masse. Jon, of course, stayed back with Brienne. He would not be welcome to make an entrance with the rest of the family, and she knew he would not be allowed to sit with them in the front-and-center pew the Starks customarily inhabited, either.

"I'm all by myself here," she said to Jon. "Will you join me?"

In truth, she didn't mind being alone— was used to it— but she couldn't bear the expression on his face at that moment, watching his siblings join together in a tight little knot, knowing he could not penetrate it. He nodded, the muscles of his face easing a little.

"Oh, I should—" began Brienne when the Starks reached the half-dozen steps leading up the the church entrance. Robb by himself could not get Sansa up the stairs; he would need Brienne, since Jon was clearly not permitted in the vicinity if the way Catelyn was sending chilly glances at him were any indication.

Sheriff Clegane straightened from where he'd been slouching against the corner of the church, watching everyone with blank, careful eyes.

"I'll do it," he said. He bent behind Sansa's chair, grasped its frame through the spokes of its wheels, and lifted her several feet into the air. She gave a startled _eep_ that caused her to giggle nervously, and then whimper in pain.

"Alright?" he asked her.

"Yes, fine, thank you," she replied in a reedy little voice, and he climbed the steps, then set her down at the top. He dusted off his hands on the thighs of his trousers and then descended the steps to return to his position at the corner of the church. He wasn't breathing hard, or looking as if he'd exerted himself in any way.

"Th— thank you," Sansa called to him, then coughed, then moaned in pain.

Most everyone had turned back to the drama inherent in watching a grievously assaulted young beauty and the rest of her bereaved family enter the church for their father's funeral, and so they all missed the expression that flitted across the sheriff's face. He looked… pained, as if Sansa's suffering caused his own, possibly even worse than she herself felt it.

"Did you see that?" Brienne asked Jon, wanting validation that she really had witnessed such an unlikely thing, but he was staring in the other direction.

"What?" he said distractedly. "What is _she_ doing here?"

Brienne turned and saw a petite figure approaching at a brisk pace along the boardwalk. She wore a mourning dress of black bombazine, the overskirt of which was gathered and opened at a jaunty angle to one side, revealing an underskirt of figured taffeta. It had very fine lace wrought in black silk around the cuffs, the low square neckline, the bottom edge of the basque, and the hem of the underskirt. With every step, a tiny foot appeared from under the deeply flounced taffeta, revealing one— just one— of the long line of buttons surely running up the neck of her boots. Her platinum hair was done in an elaborate network of coils and loops, none of which appeared to be in any danger of mutiny, unlike Brienne's.

Brienne sucked in a breath as she remembered she'd undone her plait in the wagon.

"Drat," she muttered, and scooped a handful of pins from her pocket. With nowhere to set them while she wrestled with her long plait, she held them out to Jon. "Will you hold these for me?"

"…yes?" He blinked at her, and reached out a cupped palm.

She twisted and twirled and pinned, but this time her plait would not cooperate at all, persisting in collapsing every time she lifted her hands away.

"I can't go into the church with my hair down," she grumbled in response to Jon's suggestion that she just forget about it.

"Excuse me," said a cool little voice from a foot below Brienne's head. "May I be of assistance?"

Daenerys Targaryen stood there, shooting Brienne an arch look, as if it were every day the richest woman in town, from the most elite family, offered help with hair-dressing to the _poorest_ woman in town, from the _least_ elite family. Now it was Brienne's turn to be nonplussed.

"…yes?"

Daenerys marched over to where the boardwalk ended a few steps above street level, and climbed them. "Stand before me, please," she said, very businesslike, and Brienne obeyed, moving into position and facing away from her new beautician. To Brienne's horror, Daenerys unfastened the string used to tie off her long plait and loosened it, causing the long pale skein of it to fall in a loose, straight sheet past her hips.

Quick, not-quite-gentle fingers combed the tumbling tresses, separating them into thick locks before performing some elaborate maneuvers; not only plaits but twists and loops and swirls and tucks, all done at a dizzying speed.

"Pin," said Daenerys. Jon, standing nearby, half amused and half irritated— it _was_ his father's funeral about to begin— held a single pin up to her. She took it and secured the lock of hair to Brienne's head. "Pin," she said again, and Jon offered another. Thus it went, pin after pin and lock after lock, until the entire mess had been transformed, or so Brienne assumed, if Daenerys' and even Jon's admiring gazes were anything to go by.

"Look in a window reflection," suggested Daenerys, motioning to the closest, and Brienne did so, stepping up to it. It was small and high off the ground, inaccessible to most people due to their not being a giant as Brienne was. Her eyes widened in surprise to see how comely her hair looked, how smooth and elegant. The loops and twists did not look overwrought, as she had feared, just sophisticated, a suggestion that she cared about her appearance and took steps to make herself presentable.

Then a face appeared on the other side of the glass, and Brienne reeled back with a little scream before she recognized it: those piercing green eyes, that granite-hewn jaw, those sculpted lips, the busted nose that kept him handsome instead of edging into prettiness…

The window Daenerys had chosen? Was the window of one of the jail cells. Specifically, the jail cell in which Jaime Lannister was currently the reluctant occupant.

Brienne took another step back, horrified to have had her face mere inches from his, even if there had been a sturdy pane of glass between them. The man's reputation had been mud even before the revelations of the last few days; now, it was sewage. _Lower_ than sewage, if something existed that could be; the man had not only fornicated with his sister, but fathered multiple children with her. Brienne could never have even imagined such a thing, let along comprehended that it had actually occurred.

He stared out at her, looking weary and bored and so, so beautiful. Brienne took _another_ step back; it was unsafe to be too close to him, for reasons of propriety and sanity and possibly a few other things she hadn't words for.

"Don't go," he said, barely audible through the glass. "Stay and talk to me. It's so dull in here."

And then he _smiled_ at her, and Brienne's heart seized in her chest. The closest she'd ever come to seeing something like him had been in a museum in Chicago, many years earlier, when they'd stopped there on the way from her birthplace in Wisconsin to their destination of Kingsland. The arrogant arch of brow and finely-hewn angle of cheekbone, permanently etched into her memory it would seem, had been drawn by the hand of a long-dead, far-away master, incomparably lovely, and its model could have been the man grinning at her from a jail cell.

"Brienne?" said Jon. He thrust out the handful of unneeded hairpins. "We really should go in, now."

"Of course," she murmured, backing away, somehow unable to tear her gaze from Jaime Lannister's. His grin faded, but he didn't leave the window, staring back at her with a frown starting to pucker between his eyes. "I'm sorry," she said, but was unsure which man she was saying it _to_.

She wrenched herself around and took the hairpins from Jon, to his relief. When she looked up, it was to find Daenerys watching her, a faint moue of amusement curling her lips.

As they three fell into step together, Brienne felt a trifle desperate to inject some normality into the situation, since she felt anything _but_ normal. She asked, "Miss Targaryen, will you sit with us?"

"You may call me Daenerys," the other woman announced, as if granting a priceless gift. She probably thought she was. "Yes, I would like that. Thank you."

"I'm surprised you've come," Jon commented from Brienne's other side. Probably he should have been in the middle, escorting both women, but it seemed too awkward to switch around now that they were nearly to the church.

"Are you?" Daenerys replied in a wintry tone. "I don't see why. There are few decent men in the world, and fewer honest ones. Your father was both, the rarest of the rare. The least I can do is honor him for it."

Jon did not respond to that, and Brienne shot him a glance, finding him frowning, bemused. They climbed the stairs to the church, and the sheriff— still malingering at the building's corner— sauntered over and ascended behind them, last into the church after they stepped inside. He closed the tall doors behind him, and the cool interior of the church fell abruptly into shadow as the morning sun was blocked.

A single pew in the back had been left vacant, _for the misfits and outcastes_ , Brienne thought uncharitably. They filed in one by one: she herself, Jon Snow, Daenerys Targaryen, Sheriff Clegane. _Rabble, bastard, eccentric, flunkey._

Jaime Lannister, she added to the list, the memory of his face persisting in her mind's eye, that impish grin gleaming fit to blind her. _Reprobate. Degenerate. Rogue_. So many words to describe just one man, but such a man… something told her that he could not be adequately described even if one used a hundred words. A thousand.

Reverend Brother stepped behind the pulpit. "If you could all turn to Ecclesiastes 7:1…"

Brienne settled back against the unforgiving oak pew and let the comforting words wash over her, trying valiantly to focus on the matter at hand instead of that _lewd, carnal, wicked_ man.

She failed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: I want to make sure the plot all works out and makes sense, so I won't be posting this daily as I have been, until I'm confident that I won't have to backtrack and fix plot mistakes. Could be a week or two. Sorry for the delay, but thank you for reading and reviewing :)**

* * *

Dany I

Dany was not accustomed to being near people in general, nor around men in particular, let alone men such as these. One was handsome, the other quite _not_. Both were intensely masculine in a way she had been warned against, in her girlhood. Both were hostile to her, but, she suspected, for different reasons.

Jon Snow was hostile to her because… she was not sure why, really, though it probably had something to do with how her family's reticence to socialize had been interpreted as snooty elitism.

(There was quite a bit of accuracy to that reputation, actually. Her family was more pureblooded than the royalty of England, whom the Targaryens dismissed as "more German than English at this point, by the gods!". The Targaryens claimed unbroken lineage all the way back to Æthelred the Unready and thus viewed anyone arriving on Britain's hallowed shores at some point thereafter as a hopeless parvenu.)

It was accurate for the rest of her family, if not for Dany herself. She'd never been permitted off the Triple D as a child, and once an adult, it just felt more comfortable to remain where she was accustomed. But in recent months, needs must…

Dany cast her memory back of prior interactions with Jon Snow. She'd never clapped eyes on the man before almost a year earlier, when they'd almost come to an embarrassing collision in the doorway of the dry goods shop. He had stared down at her as if he'd never seen a woman before, likely because he was surprised to confront someone with her odd coloring. If one were not prepared for it, she supposed, it could be unnerving to look at her. She sometimes was unnerved looking at herself, and usually when viewing Viserys, though that might be for reasons of his behavior instead of merely due to his unusual appearance.

For her part, Dany had rather enjoyed their close encounter. She had never been that close to a man, before, and had been pleased to experience what it was like. She could feel the heat rising from his body, and she recalled that he had smelled good, in a way she couldn't really explain. Or perhaps it was just the absence of the pong that persisted around most other men that appealed? In any case, it was quickly over. She had seen him around town at various times, such as church on Sundays and the occasional pass-by in the street, but there had been no other occasions.

Dany felt a dart of annoyance to be judged by Jon Snow for her family's reputation but, she allowed, he himself had been judged by his bastardy. Perhaps judging was all he knew. Still, it was unfair.

On her other side… Sheriff Clegane was hostile because it gave him comfort to be so. As a fairly hostile person herself, Dany was aware of what it was like to think and feel things she had no wish to think and feel, with the result being a grim demeanor and uncharitable outlook. She chanced a look up at him, sitting silent and monumentally large on her right side. He scowled down at her. A tendril of comradeship unfurled in her breast; _yes_ , she thought, _we are kindred spirits_. If only women were allowed to scowl like that. How freeing it would be!

Dany had much to scowl about. She was very dissatisfied with her life, and then, alternatively, besieged with guilt for failing to appreciate the extreme plenty she enjoyed. Each one of her desires and whims was fulfilled eventually, and usually immediately; what right did she have to sulk because she wanted something that, objectively speaking, few people in the world could access? Namely, total freedom. Everywhere she looked, there was another rule or regulation or restriction holding her back. Sometimes she felt as if she'd choke from yet another impulse she had to stifle, or words she had to clench back behind her teeth.

According to her uncle— or perhaps it had been her grandfather— there were only two acceptable families in Kingsland, _perhaps_ three if one stretched the definition, with whom one might keep company without fear of making a regrettable blot on one's stature and reputation.

It was a cultural desert, a _social_ desert. How could one accustomed to the utmost refinement be expected to exist in such a wasteland? One could _not_.

And so, one by one, her family had all moved back east, proclaiming that dusty little Kingsland was adequate as a way of place to make the money that was so very needed in order to support one's self in a civilized place— preferably Boston, but London would suffice as well, or even Paris if one were under duress— but as a permanent residence? _No_.

As they left, they presented their share of the duty of stewarding the town of Kingsland to the remaining Targaryens. Finally, there were only two of them left, both of them as mad as an entire milliner's full of hatters. Aerys and Rhaella had two children, refused to let them step foot off the lavish estate their forebears had constructed a generation earlier, and did their best to pretend the outside world did not exist.

But exist it did, and it would not be ignored.

There came a day when other powerful families arrived, and obstructed the Targaryen governance of Kingsland. Tywin Lannister in particular was a vexation; thirsty to acquire as much wealth and influence as he could, he interfered at every opportunity, until Aerys was forced to go into town instead of conducting his business through the post and messengers. The stress of being disagreed with killed him; he barely made it home before collapsing into a swoon from which he never recovered.

Rhaella had already retreated into a world of her own making, believing she was home in Boston with a young man— _not_ Aerys— whom she had particularly favored. She willed herself to death, convinced her spirit would fly back to Boston and be reunited with him.

That left Dany with her elder brother, Viserys. He had been an unpleasant boy, and grew into an unpleasant man. There had been whispers, in centuries past, of Targaryen siblings marrying each other. Since there wasn't a Targaryen alive who did not prefer thinking about the past rather than existing in the present, Viserys began to believe there was something to that sibling-marriage thing, and pressed Dany to comply with it.

Dany, by this point thoroughly and utterly done with having to indulge her insane relatives and their crackpot delusions, not only refused but took steps to ensure Viserys could not continue make a nuisance of himself with his clumsy and futile attempts to woo her. She gave him an entire wing of the house for his own purposes, took the other for herself, and never the twain again to meet if at all possible. As Viserys descended into the same fugue state as their mother, lost in dreams of other places and times, it became more and more possible. Dany took on more and more of the business interests until she alone was overseeing them.

Under her stewardship, they doubled, then trebled. The Targaryens became far wealthier than they had ever been, to the delight of those who had returned east and now clamored to enjoy their share of the proceeds. Dany thought her success, at least, should have sufficed, but alas. No, now they worried about their legacy, or rather, about who would run the Kingsland interests when Dany was too old or too mad or too dead to do so herself. It was, they declared, time for her to marry and produce another generation of lunatics.

She refused, of course. _Let them manage the business and the money themselves, when she was gone,_ she thought, ignoring their regular missives entreating her to find a husband— any husband— and give them some little Targaryens to carry on the family name and finances.

Dany was recently in receipt of a letter from the oldest, most senior of the clan. Aemon informed her that while she dictated how and what to invest in, the majority of the Targaryen holdings were in fact owned by others in the family and that she could not, alone, afford her lavish (if solitary) lifestyle. And so, unless she wanted to strike out on her own, living only by what she herself earned, she would damned well do her duty and present them with the required passel of tow-headed brats.

This conflicted her greatly. On the one hand, she greatly yearned to tell Aemon and the rest of the old fossils back in Boston to go roger themselves stupid. However, Dany was nothing if not realistic and practical. She took a careful accounting of her holdings, what she could afford, what the world would permit her, as a woman, to do, and decided it would be easier to just give in.

First order of business: make the acquaintance of a man. Any man. She had preferences, of course, but those could be put aside in the interest of begetting an heir with haste. Most women were encouraged to close their eyes and think of England; Dany was committed to closing her eyes and thinking of never having to deal with old Aemon and the rest, ever again.

And so, she began going out and about in town. She met various of the young men of Kingsland. Some of them were even appealing. However, all of them had ideas about how their marriage should go; namely, that they would be in charge of it instead of Dany, and that would not do. She was prepared to submit to their base lusts in order to procure her reluctant objective of children, but outside of the bedroom? Place her trust and the state of her livelihood in the hands of a person who might well be an utter incompetent? No, no, and no.

Tragically— and she was unsurprised about this— not one of these prospective husbands was willing to agree, under pain of voided contract and civil lawsuit, to permit Dany to have the run of her life, her house, her business interests, and her children. To a man, they insisted they should be the dominant member of the partnership in all ways. This did not feel equitable to her; they would take over everything? Would they leave none of her for herself?

Month after month drifted by. Dany doggedly continued to come to town every day, going to church and giving the shops her custom and even taking lunch on occasion with Margaery Tyrell and Sansa Stark. They were a bit boring, not having enjoyed the same caliber of rigorous education thrust upon Dany by her parents in their monomaniacal quest to ensure she knew everything she needed to excel in their all-important goal. Languages, literature, commerce, philosophy; she and Viserys had been drilled in each until their brains felt ready to trickle from their ears, liquescent.

And now she found herself at the funeral of Eddard Stark. She had not known him well, but one year, not long past, when Viserys was still involving himself with the concerns of the present instead of yesteryear, he had alienated (and then driven off with a sterling letter-opener) their foreman. Viserys had become convinced that he himself was the reincarnation of Jean-Paul Marat, and the foreman was Charlotte Corday reborn. The foreman would force his way into the house while he bathed, Viserys insisted, and stab him in the throat.

The foreman had been with the Targaryens for nearly two decades, and thus was accustomed to their particular oddities, but this was more than he was prepared to endure. Upon his departure, the ranch descended into chaos, the hands being unwilling to obey either Viserys or Dany. In the hands' defense, the Targaryen siblings were almost thoroughly ignorant of ranching practices (an oversight Dany had since correccted), so she could not really blame them.

But it was imperative that things return to normal, or whatever passed for normal in her family, lest they be faced with the prospect of retaining the entire herd over the course of the winter, losing money on having to feed and provide for them, when they should have been sold and bringing in income. Financial ruin beckoned.

It was then that Ned Stark presented himself at the estate. The driven-off foreman had not been especially discreet in explaining his hasty departure from the Targaryen bosom, and word had reached the Northpoint. Knowing what a hardship it was to try to run a ranch in full mutiny, especially on the cusp of that time of year when the herd needed to go to St. Louis, he proposed the loan of his own foreman, Jory Cassel, until such time as Dany could replace him.

Limp with relief, weak with gratitude, Dany had accepted, on the proviso that neither Ned nor Jory ever spoke of it. They both agreed, and had kept their words. Dany paid Jory lavishly in addition to whatever he earned from Ned's ranch, and the next year when Northpoint Ranch came down with a vicious case of hoof-and-mouth disease, she gifted it several hundred head to replace what they'd had to cull.

That, too, she insisted be kept secret, and not a word of it had been spoken. Lannisters might incessantly bray about paying their debts, but Dany would not have it said that Targaryens did not do likewise.

Upon learning of the deaths of Ned and Jory, Dany had felt sorrow. It was odd, since she was not accustomed to mourning others; when her parents had died, it had been more of a relief than anything. And when Viserys died, it too would be a relief, more for him than Dany, since it could not be very comfortable, chased by delusions all the live-long day. But for Ned and Jory, she grieved. They were good men. They had not deserved to be gunned down like dogs.

Sitting in the church next to Ned's son, knowing his sorrow far outpaced her own, she found her throat tightening and her eyes watering. It was very unpleasant, and she feared embarrassment. Surreptitiously, she withdrew a lace-edged handkerchief and applied it to the corners of her eyes, keeping her head lowered in hopes that the filmy veil frothing around her hat would obscure her actions, but when she raised her head once more, it was to find Jon Snow watching her, looking puzzled by her. She supposed it _was_ odd; he would not know of her tenuous relationship with his father and Jory, nor of the kindnesses they had shown her. And she did not have to explain herself to him, nor anyone else. Dany lifted her chin, ignoring Jon to stare straight ahead at the reverend.

Her attention wandered, as she had never been one to bother herself with the ephemeral; she had concerns enough in this world and no time to spare on the next one. Were there any promising prospects in this crowd? Robb Stark was a handsome fellow, she considered, and as Ned's son, certain to be a good man, as well. But kind as Ned had been, there'd been a thread of steel in him. If Robb had inherited that thread, he was unlikely to permit his wife such freedom as Dany required. She dismissed her neighbor to the left for the same reason.

What about her neighbor to the right? She considered him for a few moments; his face was regrettable, but his form was pleasing, if one were receptive to 'massive and hairy'. Dany in general was not, _but_ , she thought, eyeing the muscular forearms revealed by his rolled-up shirtsleeves, _I could learn to adapt_. If the way his gaze was focused on the back of Sansa Stark's auburn head like a sniper about to take his shot, however, that would be a situation of barking up the wrong tree, for sure. She wondered if the girl were aware she was the subject of such ardent observation.

The Bolton boy had a fey look to him, as if he were one last crisis away from falling to pieces, and there was enough madness in her bloodline, she felt. The elder Tarly boy was sweet-natured, and likely would thank her to tell him what to do, but it was clear to the entire town that his heart belonged to one of Baelish's whores. The younger Tarly was definitely a prospect, being fine of form, if narrowly-spaced of eye, but she suspected that he was not the brightest candle in the chandelier and her children could not be stupid if they were to effectively run the Targaryen business interests one day.

The younger Lannister son, clever if not handsome, had absconded from Kingsland a decade earlier and not been seen since. The elder had been an option prior to his arrest and likely imminent execution. Damned waste of good traits, if that came to pass; he was quite the handsomest man she'd ever seen, and he seemed lazy enough to have permitted Dany to run things her way. Their offspring would have been excessively attractive. She permitted herself a sigh of regret.

Dany' musings were interrupted by the end of the funeral. The pallbearers came forward— for Ned, it would be Robb and a representative of most of the prominent families in town: Garlan for the Tyrells, Oberyn Martell, old Jon Arryn (though hopefully he would not be relied upon to carry much of the weight), and of course Ned's goodbrother Edmure for the Tullys. Robb looked to the back of the church and beside Dany, Jon went rigid. She glanced at him; a muscle ticked in his jaw, and he was carefully avoiding eye contact with Catelyn Stark, who was almost vibrating with fury as she observed the exchange between her son and her husband's bastard. Jon's hands, resting on his knees, clenched into fists.

Dany was no better at comforting others than she was at grieving, but this was terrible. She could nearly _feel_ his distress, forming a sick feeling in her chest. Praying she was doing it right, she reached out her left hand and hesitantly placed it over his balled right fist, feeling how it trembled in the cup of her palm. He dragged his gaze from his brother to her, a bit shocked.

"He was your father, too," she whispered. "Go."

He shut his eyes for a moment, then stood and slid sideways past Dany and Sheriff Clegane to the church's central aisle and strode toward the caskets. He and Robb took the front positions, and together the six men hoisted Eddard Stark aloft to their shoulders. Slowly, carefully, they began to carry him toward the doors. Behind them, another group of six had been assembled for Jory. His three brothers had come up from where they lived in San Antonio, and the other three spots consisted of two Northpoint ranch hands who'd been Jory's friends and a random Greyjoy with whom he'd enjoyed drinking at the saloon of an evening.

Dany and Brienne remained in their pew, expecting to leave after everyone else. Sheriff Clegane once more came forward to lower Sansa's chair down the steps to the street. The ladies followed Reverend Brother outside in time to see the Manderlys wagon start to rumble toward the graveyard at the back of the church. The family was surrounded by mourners, each vying to express their condolences and/or peer more closely at Sansa's injuries.

Dany would not be attending the burial; it was for close relatives and friends, and she could not stretch her acquaintance with Ned and Jory that far. But she also did not want to return home, just yet. It was hard to believe, after a lifetime restricted to the estate by her hermit parents, but it seemed that she had not, in fact, inherited their isolationist tendencies. She _enjoyed_ being around people, sometimes, to her surprise, and on a day such as that, when her emotions felt a bit tender around the edges, she did not relish the idea of returning home to fend off Viserys or conduct some more dratted paperwork.

"Are you expected somewhere right away? Will you join me for lunch at the hotel?" she therefore asked Brienne, who looked behind herself to see who Dany could possibly have been addressing. "Yes, I mean you," Dany added, as kindly as she could manage.

Brienne blinked her (really quite lovely) eyes.

"The Starks will be at the burial for a while, so, yes. Thank you," she said at last, though by her cautious expression it was clear she expected Dany to play true to the Targaryen reputation for eccentricity and do something bizarre. Dany restrained herself from hooting like an owl, just to startle the other woman.

They walked past the throng of mourners, passing between the bulk of them and where Jon Snow was talking with Oberyn Martell off to the side, their pleasing voices undulating with voluptuous Spanish syllables.

"I notice you have made some new friends," Oberyn said to Jon, his dark, liquid gaze roaming with appreciation over Dany as she and Brienne walked by. "One rather pretty friend in particular," he added just after she had passed.

She paused, turning her head to glance back at him over her shoulder. "You are rather pretty, yourself, señor," she told him in the same language. Then she faced ahead once more and carried on, just smiling in response to Brienne's bemused look. The sound of Oberyn's laughter rang out after them. Such a shame there was no hope that he would agree to let her rule the roost; age difference be damned, he would have made her a splendid husband.

"What just happened?" asked Brienne, looking worriedly back and forth between Dany and the two men.

"I am finding out that men can be fun to play with," Dany replied. "I haven't had much opportunity to learn such a lesson until just recently, but it is enjoyable."

"They scare the heck out of me," muttered Brienne.

"Not all, I hope," Dany said lightly as they arrived at the hotel. "I have heard your father is all things pleasant, and the same about your departed brother."

They were shown to a table in the restaurant and handed the single-page menu. All the items on it were uninspired, quite unlike the delights produced by the culinary maestro Dany employed, but the view was not to be improved upon: if one were to peer out the window into the darkness of the wide-open farrier shop across the street, one could admire the gleam of sweat on the nicely-developed arms and chest of the young blacksmith. She had no practical experience in the marital arts, of course, but she _did_ have unfettered access to a sizable library compiled by generations of prurient-minded Targaryens. She knew what was what, and how it all fit together. And was looking forward to gaining some practical experience in the same.

"Oh, he is," Brienne hastened to say. "And Galladon was, too. I just mean… _men_. Who aren't my father or brother, or _like_ my father or brother."

"Ah, _those_ kind of men," Dany murmured with a smile. "I think they have great potential to be quite entertaining."

"I don't trust them," Brienne said darkly. "When they stare and smile like they do. They're having _thoughts_ , mark my words."

"Mark them I shall," promised Dany, hiding a smile. This was turning out to be far more amusing than she had expected.


	6. Chapter 6

Jaime I

The girl backed away from Jaime as if he were a very large and poisonous snake, her expression one of horror. It was not an expression he was accustomed to seeing on the face of a woman, and after the novelty wore off, he was left with nothing but the familiar sense of despair that had haunted him ever since Sheriff Clegane had appeared at the Double B and hauled Jaime away on a charge of murder.

The last week had been tumultuous, to say the least. First, to learn of Bobby's death. Jaime hadn't minded in the least, but he knew the younger children had loved the man, shitty father though he'd been, and was sad that they would grieve him. But Cersei's abandonment of her sons and daughter had impacted him with the force of a body blow, and the hits had kept on coming.

Unfettered by any custodial restrictions over his behavior or purse strings, Joffrey's gossamer thread of self-control melted away like dew under the hot Texas sun. Aware of his eldest's instability, Jaime had feared for Myrcella's and Tommen's care, but was also apprehensive about the sheriff having free run of the place while he interviewed the employees for clues to Robert's murder.

After some consideration, Jaime had moved from the creaky old mansion perched atop the Casterly Rock Mine (who built a house over a giant expanding pit in the ground? Tywin Lannister, that's who) into the Double B. He resided there for exactly one day before Clegane had appeared, put him in handcuffs, and chucked him into the back of a wagon while his eldest child smirked and the younger two wept, because the sheriff had drawn the conclusion that Jaime had killed Bobby.

It was news to Jaime; _he_ thought he had spent the evening at home, castigating himself for past mistakes (namely, everything Cersei-related he had ever done), and wondering how effectively he could disappear from Kingsland and adopt a new identity, while drinking as heavily as possible without irreparably damaging himself.

Unfortunately, it appeared that Sheriff Clegane did not consider "horrifically inebriated" a solid alibi in the face of such a spectacular accusation as presented by the third Tyrell son, spiteful little sod that Loras was. Then there was the matter of the housekeeper reporting that Jaime had had a row with his twin and her husband in the study, and that when the voices stopped shouting, Jaime rode away while Cersei went upstairs to her bedroom. The next morning, Bobby had been found, dead. As soon as the assumption of 'drunken falling' had been corrected to 'murder' the housekeeper's conscience prevailed upon her to come forward with her tale (and her hand out to Judge Baelish, who gave her a generous reward for her civic service).

Thrilled to be able to justify Jaime's arrest by the slimmest margin, Baelish had ordered it so, and then taken the last train out of Kingsland to Brownwood, his next stop on the court circuit, thus escaping the furor the developing events had caused.

Jaime thought, now, with great fondness of the idea he'd had, of joining his brother in Charleston and making a new life for himself as Tyrion had. Ah, if only he'd left a week earlier, but… the children. Their 'father' was gone, and then their mother. Their grandfather and one uncle had fucked off to San Francisco, another uncle to South Carolina, and the third to places unknown but suspected to be European in general and Parisian in particular. The fourth uncle, the last remaining adult in their lives— their _actual_ father, for the gods' sakes, whether they knew it or not— could not desert them as well.

Nor did he want to, even. Jaime had expected to be devastated by Cersei's absence, for all that he hadn't touched her in a decade and had no plans to ever do so again, but instead, he felt a curious… lightness, and even a spark of hope: perhaps, now, at long last, he could finally be a parent to his children instead of the uncle Cersei had kept away from them whenever possible. He had longed for it since the moment of Joffrey's birth, no matter that he'd been appalled at his sister's duplicity. She had insisted she was using the vinegar-soaked sponges and they had nothing to worry about… all three times.

But Cersei should not shoulder all the blame. It was not as if he tripped and fell, cock-first, into her. He had wanted to fuck her, she had told him the lie he wanted to hear to convince him to do it, and do it he had. Quite a lot, in fact, especially in those early years. As time passed, however, and Cersei descended into a wine-fueled narcissistic haze, he had sought her less and less. Their last time had been when Tommen was conceived, because Jaime's life was one huge ironic joke.

Not for the first time, Jaime thought wistfully of the intelligence Tywin had passed on to Tyrion, and wished he had acquired a bit more of it for himself. What good were looks when you weren't bright enough to keep them from being inherited by children you shouldn't have been getting on your own sister in the first place?

Being arrested for Bobby's death was probably a very suitable penance, Jaime decided his first night in the dreary cell the sheriff had stuffed him into. Not only had Jaime cuckolded Bobby, but he'd given the man's wife three children he called his own in blissful ignorance. _And_ Jaime had continued an amiable, if not fond, relationship with Bobby in spite of the aforementioned cuckolding and impregnating, for two decades.

No, Jaime was a shit, and no mistake. He deserved this.

It was the second day when he realized that simply sitting in a tiny room for a while was not how this situation would end. Without divine, or at the very least parental, intervention, there was a very good chance Jaime might actually _die_ for this.

He really did not want to die for this.

On the third day, he had a somewhat startling epiphany about the _reason_ he did not want to die. It had very little to do with missing out on the rest of his life— though he was still quite young, with plenty of juice in him yet— and nothing whatsoever to do with a fear of death. It had everything to do, however, with his children. Joff was an adult, at nineteen years of age, but Myrcella was fourteen, and Tommen, only nine. Jaime did not envision his father raising them with the sensitivity and love he knew they needed, were starved for, after the remote upbringing they'd experienced thus far at the disinterested hands of Cersei and Bobby. Stannis was no more likely to be a warm parent, possibly even less so. And Tyrion taking custody of them was a prospect so laughable it was not even to be considered.

No, if the children were to be saved from the sort of cold rearing that had damaged Jaime and his siblings so badly, he would have to take them in hand himself. Which he could not do from a jail cell, nor while swinging from a noose.

Telegrams to his father in San Francisco went unanswered. Tyrion had sent one, saying he was on his way, but from Charleston, that could take a week or more. Jaime doubted he had that much time. Joffrey wasn't lifting a finger to help him, which was no surprise, but still hurt. When Baelish returned to Kingsland on the court circuit in a week, unless something drastic occurred, Jaime was done for, because he knew he'd see no justice in this county.

Baelish had held a grudge against Tywin for years because of the tug-of-war they'd played, the last few decades, for control of Kingsland. Baelish decided he won it when Tywin went to San Francisco, and to execute Tywin's son and heir would be a crowning achievement for him, the cherry atop a sundae made entirely of 'fuck you'-flavored ice cream.

…and that thought made Jaime's stomach growl. The food in Kingsland's jail left much to be desired. He had offered Sheriff Clegane extra money to get his meals from the hotel instead of the saloon, but so far his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Well, deaf _ear_. Singular. Poor bastard only had the one, after whatever-the-hell had melted the other one, and half his face, off.

Speaking of ugly people... as he peered out of the cell's lone window toward where the funeral had ended and people were milling about, he thought back to that odd girl. Jaime had seen her around town— how could he miss her? She was as tall as himself, perhaps even taller, and he was no shrimp. The whole family had been gigantic, though all that remained was her father, an invalid now, they said. She bore the brunt of his care and their little ranch all on her own capable-seeming shoulders, now. Couldn't have been easy. The gods knew Jaime had struggled at first to cope with running the mine after Tywin left for California, and he had servants to tend his mundane needs, and no ill parent to mind.

Drawn to the window by all the hustle and bustle outside, and wondering who had died— Clegane didn't tell him a thing, in here— Jaime had watched with idle curiosity, and then growing interest, as the tiny madwoman who owned half the town had unplaited the giant girl's hair. It fell to her hips in a cascade of rippling champagne-pale silk, and he had felt a stirring that confused him as much as it aroused him. Yes, her hair was gorgeous, but what it was attached to… he shook his head in dismay.

When the styling had completed and she approached, Jaime moved back into the shadows, wondering what she was doing until he realized she wanted to use his window as a looking glass. She stepped up close to the wall, her face a mere inch or four away, and patted the pretty plaits and coils the other woman had magicked into her hair. There was something so vulnerable and appealing about her homely face that Jaime had been drawn to her, moving closer without actually commanding his feet to do so.

She had shrieked and taken a step back when she realized he was just on the other side of the glass, but he had enough time to look at her from up close, and felt the shock of his life. Her eyes were lovely, the most beautiful he'd ever seen, a limpid blue that matched the clear sky Jaime had not stood under in days. A slender base of gold encircled the pupil, then a pool of cobalt had paler azure rays spreading out toward a rim of indigo.

The expression on her face— it was plain, he decided, rather than ugly; no one with eyes like that could be _ugly_ — was not just shocked, but chagrined. Disgusted. By _him_. It seemed that his and Cersei's dirty little secret had been revealed to all and sundry, and she too had heard it. He felt a pang of _something_ , to see her contempt of him. Was it disappointment? Regret? He felt, in a way, as if a chance had been lost, that some promising potential would now forever be unrealized.

"Don't go," he shocked himself by saying. "Stay and talk to me. It's so dull in here."

He followed it up with a smile, his most successful one, the one that had never failed to make a woman do precisely what he wanted. Right then, he wanted her to remain at his dinky little window with him. They didn't even have to talk; the could just look at each other for an hour or two.

But Ned's bastard called the girl away. "I'm sorry," she said. To Jaime? To Jon? Who could know?

 _There was charm in the mystery,_ Jaime thought. It would kill some time, wondering who she'd addressed the words to. He added it to the puzzle of who, exactly, was in those two coffins. He decided to figure it out by listing the people who were _not_ there that morning. The whole town appeared to be present, except for the already-missing Renly and Loras, and of course Bobby and Cersei and that Kettleblack fucker would not attend.

It had been all hands on deck for the Stark family, bastard included, with the glaring exception of sober old Ned himself…

 _Oh._

A jolt went through him at the idea of Ned's death. Jaime had never seen the appeal of the man; good he undeniably was, but so _serious_. And boring, gods, so boring. His wife and children were serious and boring, too. Not a sense of humor to be found among them, or so it had always seemed. _Though_ , Jaime considered, if one had to pick between decent-but-dull and amusing-but-corrupt, perhaps one should err on the side of caution and go with the safe choice. He was beginning to see the appeal of a nice tedious existence where little happened and no one laughed… but no one was lying, or cheating, or manipulating, either.

Maybe being able to trust your family was worth the sacrifice of a few laughs.

A pang of yearning pierced him, for something that had never been and never would be.

Jaime flopped down on the narrow cot in the corner of the cell, and wearily closed his eyes.

* * *

Jon II

After the funeral, they returned home. Robb drove Brienne and her father's chair back to the E-Star while the rest got back to their usual daily routine.

Lunch was a silent affair. Jon did not taste a bite of it, his thoughts drawn back to his father, and how Ned had promised to tell him about his mother. All the questions Jon had been saving up, the entirety of his life, and they would forever go unanswered. Frustration reared up in him, and he dropped his fist under the table so he could clench it without being observed. His brothers and sisters were grieving, too. He could not bother them with his problems, not at a time like this.

He was not alone in being frustrated, however; Robb had no such compunction about raising a fuss at the table.

"Dammit!" he exclaimed, slamming his palm on the table with enough force to rattle their plates. "It's been two days! The sheriff wants us to let him 'do things his way', but what has he done? Nothing! How is that son of a bitch still free?"

No one had any answers for him. Jon's eyes ached as he fought to keep his composure. The idea that his father's death might never receive justice was like a stab to the belly, a wound seeping blood and staining everything red. Mechanically, he went through the rest of the day side-by-side with the ranch hands, tending the cattle. Since Sansa couldn't ride her for a while, he took Lady instead of Ghost to finish repairing the fence Ned and Jory had started. It was a two-man job, but Jon's anger fueled him, gave him the strength to pound new posts into the hard ground and lift the heavy cross-beams into place.

By the time the sun started to set, he wasn't yet done and his stomach was grumbling with hunger. He decided to return when he finished this last section and set to it, nearly done when he heard hoof beats. Looking up, Jon saw a horseman approach. He dropped the fence rail and had his gun out before the rail hit the dirt; he aimed it at the ground but his thumb was poised and ready on the hammer.

When the sheer bulk of the newcomer announced he was the sheriff, Jon shoved the gun back in its holster and hefted the rail back up again. He had it halfway wrestled into place by the time Clegane dismounted and ambled over.

"You always greet a man with a drawn gun?" Clegane asked. He watched Jon labor for a moment, then picked up the other half of the rail and slotted it into place as if it weighed nothing.

"I do when I don't recognize him and I'm in the same exactly place where my father was shot down two days ago," was Jon's testy reply. He took one of the wooden pegs used to fasten the rails together and began pounding it into the interlocking rails with a battered old mallet. "Since you haven't arrested Joffrey yet, he's still out there, enjoying his freedom. Who's to say he won't feel nostalgic and come back for another look? You think he wouldn't shoot me, too? Not like he has anything to lose."

The sheriff must have agreed with him, because he didn't say anything to that. They worked together for a few minutes, Clegane holding the rail in place and Jon beating the pegs into place, until the entire section was done. Jon tossed the mallet and the remaining pegs into the old sack he used to tote them around, then mopped at his sweaty face and neck with his bandana.

"What are you doing here, Clegane?" he demanded. "It's not so you can help me fix our fences."

But the sheriff still didn't answer. "This isn't your usual horse," he said, running a hand down Lady's velvet nose where she'd been patiently waiting for Jon for hours. He hadn't even had to tie her; the farthest she'd wandered had been ten feet, in search of more tender green shoots of grass to nibble on, before returning to him.

"Lady is Sansa's," he said. "Thought I'd get her out of the barn and give her some exercise since Sansa won't be riding her for a while. Since she had the shit kicked out of her. By Joffrey. Who is still running free. After killing our father."

Clegane turned from Lady to peer at Jon, who would have sworn under oath that the sheriff was amused by him. For a moment, he felt like taking the mallet to the man's forehead.

"I need an alibi for you," Clegane said at last. "Where were you two nights ago, after I left your ranch?"

Jon squinted against the fast-lowering sun. He took a swig from his canteen before fastening it to Lady's saddle and loading her with the rest of the tools and pegs, delaying as best he could to keep his temper intact, so he didn't end up provoking the sheriff into a fight. He was confident in his own ability to make a good accounting of himself, but Clegane was gigantic. Despite his best efforts, he'd end up as a grease stain in the dirt.

"I was home all night," he said at last. "After you left, I moved my things into my new bedroom in the house. Then we had supper. I had a bath, then went to bed."

"Slept all night?"

"I'd just come home after a three-week drive to St. Louis. I'd been in the saddle over twelve hours that day. Yes, I slept all night."

"Anyone there to prove it? Share with a brother? Or… one of the maids?"

Jon clenched his jaw. "No, no, and no. I was alone. _Sleeping_."

"This bedroom on the first floor?"

"Yes."

"And you could climb out the window easy?"

"…yes." Jon blew out a breath. "Listen, what is this about?"

"Let me see your gun."

Jon squinted again, this time at the sheriff. "Why?"

"Dammit, just let me see your fucking gun." Clegane was as close to the end of his patience as Jon was to his own, it seemed.

Jon reached for his LeMat and handed it over, grip first.

"Nice piece," the sheriff commented. "Rare." With an expert flick, he had the cylinder open and was peering down at the bullets housed within it. "Unusual caliber. You can't buy forty-gauge rounds."

"I cast them myself, yeah," said Jon cautiously. An itchy feeling was beginning to crawl up his spine.

"What do you have in the center barrel?" Clegane asked. "That's not a sixty-gauge."

"Grapeshot," Jon replied shortly. "With powder, and a felt wad."

The sheriff turned the gun so Jon could look at the bullets in the cylinder as well. "Takes nine rounds. Only eight in there now, though. Where's the ninth?"

Jon stared at him. "What is this about?"

Clegane stared back. "Joffrey's dead."

Jon felt a rush of blood through him. His first thought was, _Good_.

His second thought was, _Shit_ , because Clegane riding out to find him, asking all these questions, examining his gun, could only mean one thing.

"You think I did it."

"Did you?"

"No."

"Can you prove you didn't?"

"I thought _you_ were supposed to prove I _did_."

"I already got a lot against you," said the sheriff grimly. "I heard you— with my own ears— threaten to kill him."

"Anyone would have said that," Jon said hoarsely. "You know what I came home to. Tell me you wouldn't have said it yourself."

"I might have," agreed Clegane. "But you said it twice. I heard you, both times."

"Saying it twice isn't enough."

"No, but Doc Pycelle dug the bullet out. It's a forty-gauge."

The itchy feeling was pooling in Jon's stomach, turning him sick. _Gods be good._

"Someone else in town must have a forty-gauge. It wasn't me." He wracked his brain for possibilities. "My father had one. Mine is one of a pair. He gave the other to Robb, but Robb doesn't like it and never used it, so Father took it back."

He sighed in relief, feeling his balance stabilize. "That's what must have happened. Joffrey shot Father and Jory, and Father shot him back before he—"

He left off, still not able to say the word _dead_.

Clegane was staring at him, cool gray gaze intent. "That could be," he said. "We'll have to check."

Jon swallowed hard. That would mean exhuming Ned. "Miz Catelyn will never agree."

"No," the sheriff agreed. "I don't think she will." He swung the cylinder closed with another flick of his wrist but did not give it back, letting it rest on his flattened palm, testing its weight. "Where's the ninth bullet?"

"I shot a snake on the way to St. Louis," Jon replied automatically. "Not far from Joplin."

"Anyone see you?"

Relief was icy-cold as it swept through him. "Yes. One of the Double B hands…" He trailed off, realizing how pointless that was. A Baratheon hand was not going to help him beat a murder charge against Joffrey.

"Which one?" Clegane looked almost sympathetic. "Can't hurt to ask." His scarred mouth twisted up in a grisly imitation of a grin. "Maybe you'll get lucky and he'll have hated Joff."

Jon sighed. "Meryn Trant."

The grin dropped away from the sheriff's face. "Meryn Fucking Trant?" His lip curled in derision. "Might as well kiss your ass goodbye, boy. Even if you're telling the truth, he'd say the opposite just to stick you."

"I'm not a boy," Jon growled.

Clegane didn't answer, just stared at him.

"I have to take you in," he said at last. "Need to go talk to Trant, but can't bring you with me, and can't let you free, in case you run."

Every muscle in Jon's body tensed. The sheriff's watchful gaze didn't leave him for a moment. Jon forced himself to relax, to stay calm. He gave a short nod.

"Get on the horse," said Clegane. "Ride to town in front of me. You run, I shoot you."

Seething, Jon mounted Lady and took off for town without waiting to see if the sheriff was mounted on his own black monster of a stallion and following. Clegane caught up not much later, and they rode single-file into Kingsland. Twilight had fallen and the sky was well on its way to being full dark. The shops were all closed for the day, and the only people on the street were those headed toward the saloon for an evening of gambling, drinking, and whoring. Jon hitched Lady to a post and stood there beside her, his hand on her sleek rose-gray neck, fighting against the tide of bitterness threatening to overwhelm him. He pressed his face against the mare's cheek, inhaled the scent of horse and meadow grass she carried on her.

"Snow," said the sheriff.

Jon sucked in a breath and made himself take the first step to precede him toward the jail.

"Sorry," Clegane told him, and it should have sounded flippant, but… didn't. Jon could have sworn he really was apologetic to be arresting him.

That was what broke him, what slumped his back and bent his head and brought tears rushing so fiercely to his eyes that he could not hope to suppress them. His shoulders bowed and trembled, but somehow during the walk down the boardwalk toward the jail, he managed to compose himself, and by the time he reached it, he stood tall again. Damned if he'd let Ned Stark's son— even just his bastard— be seen weeping in public, even if there were no one there but the sheriff.

The interior of the jail was shabby, with paint peeling and a big dirty window and a battered old desk bearing surprisingly neat stacks of papers. The walls had row upon row of 'wanted' bills. Behind the desk, a dark corridor stretched out, seeming to be impossibly deep— Jon knew the building could only be so big, but that corridor looked a mile long.

Clegane nodded toward it. "Last cell on the left," he said, and Jon steeled himself for the trek to it.

It took only moments, of course. The far end of the corridor was lit only by a battered tin oil lantern hanging from a hook in the ceiling. He had only a brief glance at the sole other occupant of the jail, Jaime Lannister, before he was stepping into his own cell directly across from the other man. It was about eight feet square, with a small window set high up in the wall over the cot that reached from one side of the cell to the other. The cot was frayed canvas stretched over a rickety frame and featured a sad, flat pillow stacked on top of a single threadbare blanket. There were two buckets, one in each corner at the front of the cell, by the bars.

The sheriff caught him looking at the buckets. "That one's for slop, the other for fresh water. To drink or to wash, your choice. I bring them in the morning and take them away at night." His eyes glinted with sudden humor. "Don't mix them up."

He pointed at the water bucket. "Give that to me, I'll bring your water for the day." The door swung closed and he locked it with a big iron key.

"Feel free to open the window; there's a latch at the top. I don't care if you talk to the other prisoner, but don't be noisy about it." With that, he walked away, his footsteps echoing in the hallway.

Jon dropped onto the cot, then shot back up when it gave an alarming groan and eyed it warily.

"These cots have been here since Texas was Mexican," commented a dry voice, and Jon glanced up to find Lannister standing at his bars, arms braced on a horizontal crosspiece, hands dangling out into the hallway. "Best you treat yours tenderly."

Jon shot him a hostile glance, but when he sat again, it was slowly, with more care.

Lannister did not seem much bothered by Jon's coldness. "Have to say, I didn't see you as the type to end up in the clink," he commented blithely. "I thought Starks didn't break the law. What did you do, jaywalk?"

"I didn't _do_ anything," Jon replied. "But they think I killed Joffrey."

Lannister went pale beneath his tan. "What?" he whispered. "Joffrey's dead?"

"Don't say you're surprised, Lannister," said Clegane, rather cheerfully considering the subject matter, as he approached with the sloshing-full water bucket. "It was just a matter of time. He's needed killing for years. That boy wasn't right."

Lannister paled more, if possible. He went to his cot, and eschewing his own advice, sat heavily on it. "How?" he asked, his voice bleak.

"Shot," said Clegane. He opened Jon's cell door, plunked the bucket down, and relocked it.

"What— why?" Lannister whispered, staring at Jon. "Why did you—?"

"I told you, I didn't do it," Jon snapped. "I had good reason, but so do half the people in this town." He tried to rake his hands through his hair, fingers tangling in the thong of leather he had used to tie it at the back of his head. He pulled the thong free and jammed it into his vest pocket, then thrust his fingers into his hair once more, giving it a good hard tug in frustration. "I only know why I _would_ have done it."

He lifted his eyes and fixed Lannister with a glare. "Because I would have. The son-of-a-bitch deserved it. And more. He killed my father, and Jory, and what he did to Sansa..."

"What did he do to Sansa?" Jaime asked weakly.

The sheriff made the strangest noise. Jon could have sworn he sounded like a snarling dog.

"Supper'll be along soon," he rasped, and stalked away.

Jaime looked at Jon, confused.

"Joffrey beat the hell out of Sansa," Jon told him. "And killed our father and foreman."

Jaime flinched, his face ashen. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't bring my father back," Jon replied tiredly. "Sorry doesn't heal Sansa."

"But it's all I've got," whispered Jaime.

Jon did not answer. He sat back down on his cot, and waited for supper, while his chest ached and ached.


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa III

Jon did not come home in time for supper, nor was he back before the full fall of night, and everyone— save Catelyn— was becoming agitated. Sansa could not keep her attention on the sock she was darning for Rickon, Bran had not turned a page of his book in quite a few minutes, Arya wouldn't stop pacing around the parlor, and Robb didn't even bother to work on the tiny wolf he was whittling, just sitting with the knife in one hand and the wood in the other.

Finally, Rickon leapt to his feet. "I'm going to go look for him."

"Me, too," said Arya, and though Catelyn opened her mouth to protest, they were gone before she could say a word.

"Me, too," said Bran, and Robb stood, as well.

Through the window, by the bright, near-full moon and the pools of light thrown by the lanterns around the yard, Sansa could see as her siblings reached the stables. Her hands clenched around Rickon's sock, and then she threw it down and stood as quickly as she could manage.

"Sansa?" said Catelyn, looking at her with concern. "You can't mean to go with them— you're too unwell, still."

But Sansa made her way out of the house, her mother on her heels as she strode across the yard to the stables.

"Yes, I am, Mother," she replied. "I can't just sit at home while everyone else searches and my brother could be shot and bleeding to death somewhere. The poppy milk has worn off, I feel perfectly steady. I'm just sore."

She was downplaying it; her head ached and her bruised rib sent a throb of pain across her torso with each heartbeat. But she could not let that stop her.

Inside the stables, five horses were in various stages of tack: Robb's Greywind, Arya's Nymeria, Bran's Summer, Rickon's Shaggy, and… Ghost?

"Jon must have taken Lady out today," said Robb. "So Arya got Ghost ready for you."

"You saddled Ghost for me?" Sansa asked her sister, wide-eyed.

"Knew you wouldn't stay back," mumbled Arya as she gave Nymeria a gentle knee in the gut, because the horse liked to inflate her belly and keep the girth from being tightened enough. A few efficient motions later, the girth was as snug as it needed to be, and Arya about to leap onto her, but she was caught— to her dismay— in Sansa's arms.

"Thank you. I love you," Sansa whispered before Arya, who reacted as happily as a stray cat enduring an unexpected embrace.

"Alright. Fine. Okay," whimpered Arya as she struggled free. She jumped onto the mounting block and leapt to Nymeria's back, and flew from the stable with a last frightened glance back at Sansa.

"Are you sure?" Robb asked her, even as he helped her mount Ghost.

Sansa arranged her knee around the lower pommel of the sidesaddle and arranged her skirts just so. "Of course," she said, though she was sure she'd be sorry for it later on.

Robb didn't look convinced, but Sansa was resolute. Outside, she could see that Arya had headed north— toward where Father and Jory had been found— and Rickon, east. Bran gave her a faint smile as he and Summer headed south.

"I'll go west," said Sansa. "See if he went to town, perhaps. The roads will be easier on me, anyway."

Robb nodded. "I'll go along the river. Meet back here in an hour, no matter what, or we'll have to go after you, too."

"Yes, sir," she replied with a smart, mocking salute, then gave Ghost a light touch with her heel. The white stallion sprang forward.

But as even as Ghost's gait was, each step caused a jolt of pain up Sansa's body, and she clenched her jaw against it but did not slow the horse to a walk. She kept her gaze roaming along both sides of the road as they went, calling Jon's name every minute or so. She was halfway to town when she saw the tall, dark shape of someone on horseback in the distance, and almost sobbed in relief.

"Jon!" she called, spurring Ghost to a brisk trot, but as she approached, she saw that the rider was larger than her brother, and he had another horse following him, its reins tied to his saddle. The following horse was pale, its coat glinting silver in the moonlight.

"Lady?" she said, and her heart plummeted to her stomach. She kicked Ghost to a canter, wanting to intercept the rider as soon as possible. As she approached, she saw that the rider was far larger than he had any right to be, and the horse he rode was the gigantic black monster that only one man in town would ever be strong (or possibly insane) enough to ride. It was Sandor— _Sheriff_ , she corrected herself— Clegane.

"Why do you have Lady?" she demanded as soon as they were close enough for him to hear her. "Where is Jon? Is he hurt?"

"Why are you out here?" the sheriff demanded, ignoring her question and dismounting. "You're too injured to be out here. Your rib must be killing you."

It was, but finding Jon was more important. Sansa stiffened in affront. "It's none of your concern—"

"And what the hell were you thinking, riding up to a man in the pitch dark?" He stalked over to her, leaving his horse standing. "Someone just killed your father, girl! Do you think you're bulletproof? I could have shot you ten times already."

"But—"

"There's no one around for miles. I could pull you down off that horse and—"

Sansa raised her riding crop. "No, I'd—"

He snatched it from her before she could even begin to swing it at him. "No," he rasped. "You couldn't."

She had nothing to say in response to that; he was right. He was so tall that, even mounted, she did not loom very far over him. His uptilted face was gruesome in the moonlight, but the way he was breathing heavily— in anger?— distracted her from his scars. She realized, suddenly, that her breath was heavy, too, but not from anger, nor even from fear. Sandor— _the sheriff_ — was standing right beside Ghost, close enough that she could feel the heaving of his chest against her legs.

 _He is very angry_ , she thought, and wondered why she was not frightened. If Joffrey had been glaring at her and panting like that, she'd have feared for her life. He was standing, she was mounted; if he were Joffrey, she'd have had Ghost kick him in the chest and then run away until she was far and safe and never had to see him again.

But he was not Joffrey, and that made all the difference in the world.

"You won't hurt me," she whispered.

A muscle ticked in his jaw, making the scar ripple in a way that made its shiny surface look even more slick and wet than usual. Sansa waited for her stomach to turn, to feel the sense of revulsion that such a thing must certainly bring, but it was absent. All around them was the sound of cicadas and the rustling of long, sweet-smelling meadow grass. He was close enough to touch, his shoulders near enough for her to place her hands upon. She wouldn't have to bend far to kiss him, if she were to do such a thing— why was she even _thinking_ of that?— not far at all.

"No," he said quietly. "I won't hurt you."

He looked at her a moment longer before stepping back and averting his eyes, and that was when she saw it: fear. He was not angry at her, he was _afraid_ _for_ her. Sansa felt a peculiar clutch in her chest, a tightening that had nothing to do with her bruised rib.

"I'm sorry," she told him. "I didn't realize."

His gaze flicked back to her. For a moment, concern creased his brow, but just as quickly cleared. He handed the crop back to her.

"Just don't do it again."

"I won't," Sansa promised. "But… you're coming out to the Northpoint, aren't you? Why do you have my horse? Do you know where Jon is? Is he alright?"

"Yes, because Jon was riding her, yes, and yes." The sheriff stalked back to his hell-beast and mounted. "I have more answers for you. Let's go to your house."

Without waiting for her to reply, he set off down the road at an aggressive canter. Sansa was unbothered; she was the most sedate rider of all her siblings, and always went at her own pace. They were either forced to slow down, or leave her behind, and she had a feeling he was not going to let her ride back by herself. She was quickly proven correct, because he stopped not long after realizing she was not by his side. By the time she drew abreast, his jaw-muscle was ticking madly again. He opened his mouth, no doubt to give her a scathing set-down, but she gave him a lavish smile that only widened when his face slackened in surprise.

"Thank you for waiting," she said politely. "It was very kind of you. I cannot go very fast, you know." She exaggerated a wince as she wrapped her arm around her waist.

He narrowed his eyes at her, clearly suspicious she was dissembling, before giving a short nod and spurring his horse to go again, but this time barely at a trot.

After they'd gone a mile, she asked him, "Please, won't you tell me what has happened? You say Jon is fine, but where is he? Why are you bringing Lady home, instead? Is he coming home tonight?"

"I should tell you all at the same time," he said, and after a moment, turned his head so he could look at her. Now that he was mounted, he was back to being taller than her, and with the moon behind him, his face was thrown into shadow. She could barely make out his features, and had no clues to what he was thinking.

"I'm not on anyone's payroll, besides the county's," he said. "Not anymore."

She inhaled sharply, surprised. "Since when?"

"Since Tywin Lannister fucked off," he told her. "Ever since, I've been doing things by the book. And I'm going to _keep_ doing them by the book."

"But… why?"

He smirked at her, a cruel edge to his smile. "Maybe I'm done taking orders from some rich fucker who thinks he can have whatever he wants if he throws enough money at it. Maybe I'm tired of people thinking I'm trash because I've been bought. Maybe I want people to look at me like I'm worth their notice instead of beneath it."

Sheriff Clegane turned away from her, gazing out onto the moon-silvered meadow.

"Maybe I want to do the right thing, for once in my damned life," she thought he said, but he'd spoken so softly, she couldn't be certain.

Sansa waited. She'd always been patient, far more than her brothers and sister, even more patient than Bran. She had a feeling that explaining himself was not something the sheriff did often, so he'd need extra time to feel comfortable doing it, she reasoned. So she waited.

But then they were riding up the drive to the house, and it seemed as if he were done baring his soul to her, at least for one evening.

"I trust you," she told him, as they arrived at the big dusty yard between the house, stables, barn, and first corral.

Sheriff Clegane frowned at her while he dismounted. "What did you say?"

"I said that I trust you," she repeated, then clarified. "To do the right thing." Then she held her arms out to him.

He stared at her, an almost… wild expression on his face. "What are you doing?" he demanded, but hoarsely.

She gave him a gentle smile. For such a big, mean-looking man, he was as skittish as a new-broke horse. He'd take careful handling, that was sure.

"Waiting for you to help me down, of course."

He stared some more, but this time like a man trying to solve a puzzle. Finally, instead of putting his hands under her arms or at her waist— both places guaranteed to hurt her rib, though she was resigned to the inevitability of it— instead he grasped her hips, plucked her off Ghost, and set her gently on the ground. It was something only an immensely strong man could have accomplished, and if the smug look on his face was to go by, he was very satisfied that he'd been able to manage it it. Sansa bit her lip to keep from smiling. Men were _funny_.

She was not smiling ten minutes later, however, when all of her siblings had returned and the sheriff was revealing his presence with Lady, and Jon's whereabouts, and why.

"You _arrested_ him?" Robb demanded, looping an arm around Rickon before the boy, swinging his fists, could reach Sheriff Clegane.

Beside him, Arya made a sound like a hissing cat. Bran's face was impassive, like usual. Sansa didn't say a word; what was there to say? Any goodwill the sheriff had earned during the course of their ride back to the house had drained away, leaving her feeling empty and limp, like a stocking after you remove your leg from it.

"You were right there when he said he wanted to go get Joffrey. You know what he meant by it," growled the sheriff. "Hell, he was trying to get you to go with him to do it. And the bullet matches his gun, a gun maybe a thousand people in the world have."

"A gun that was the twin to the one my father used," countered Robb. " _My_ gun, that I gave back to him. It's possible that Joffrey's shot didn't kill Father right away. Father could have lived long enough to shoot him back."

Rickon began to cry. Robb hugged him tightly, glaring at Sheriff Clegane over the boy's curly head.

"But it was buried with him," Sansa said shakily. "The set had been given to him during the war, in recognition of his leadership. He was proud of them."

"He gave one to me and one to Jon," said Robb. "Jon loves his, but I prefer my Colt. The LeMat is only good at close range, 20 yards or less."

"I think Father was happy when he noticed you weren't using it," Arya said, with a quick grin that soon faded. "So he could take it back."

"I think so, too," Robb agreed, his own smile there and gone in a flash. "So I knew it had to go in the coffin with him. And that's where it is. And no, before you ask, I did not think to look in the cylinder. I don't know how many bullets are there."

Silence fell, because they all knew the obstacle they faced: Catelyn. As Ned's widow, she would have to grant permission for him to be exhumed and his revolver inspected.

And they all knew she would not give it.

Not for Jon.

Beside Sansa, Arya seemed to sort of shrink, caving in on herself, and her shoulders began to shake. Sansa embraced her, and it was a sign of how distressed Arya was because not only did she not try to evade her sister's affection, she leaned into it, clinging to Sansa and pressing her face against her shoulder.

"They'll hang him," she whispered. "They're going to _hang_ him."

Sansa held her tighter, ignoring the pull against her rib, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain.

"There's one more thing I can try," the sheriff said. She opened her eyes to find him looking at her. He looked regretful, truly sorry to be doing this, _and well he should_ , she thought fiercely. He was helping destroy her family as surely as if he'd been Joffrey's right-hand man.

"What?" she asked, and was surprised how cold her voice sounded. He was, too, the way his eyes widened in surprise. They'd both gotten used to her feeling a bit warmly about him, it seemed. She felt a little sad that that time had passed.

"Your brother says that his missing bullet was used on a snake during the St. Louis drive. That one of the Double B hands was there at the time and can vouch for it."

The flicker of hope Sansa had felt abruptly flickered out. If the look on her siblings' faces were indications, they too knew the futility of hoping anyone affiliated with the Baratheons or Lannisters would help establish a Stark's innocence. Especially a Stark accused of killing a Baratheon.

"I'm going to the Double B tomorrow to talk to him," Sheriff Clegane continued. "If he confirms it, that would at least be enough to cast reasonable doubt."

"When can we see Jon?" asked Bran. "We need to see him."

"Tomorrow," rasped the sheriff. "In the morning."

"Will he be warm enough?" Rickon piped up. "It's cold at night. Can you bring him my quilt?" Before Clegane could answer, the boy ran off, soon returning with a mass of fabric wadded in his arms. "Here. Give this to him."

He thrust it at the sheriff, who took it as if it contained a live rattlesnake.

"It's not _dirty_ ," Rickon said with scathing contempt, clearly disbelieving how stupid adults could be. "Brothers have to help each other."

"I didn't think it was," murmured Sheriff Clegane. The muscle was ticking and flexing in his jaw again. Sansa was beginning to understand he did that when wrestling with some unpleasant emotion, and wondered what internal struggle he fought, just then.

Arya snatched the quilt back, quickly folding it into a tidy square before holding it back out to the sheriff. He took it without comment.

"I think that's all for tonight," Sansa said, rising, slipping effortlessly into the role of hostess as she had been trained. "Thank you for returning Lady, Sheriff."

He opened his mouth to say something, reconsidered, and just ended up nodding. He let her herd him toward the front door, and hardly had he stepped across the threshold than she shut the door firmly behind him, and shot the bolt home for good measure.

"I'll try to get a lawyer from Austin tomorrow morning," said Robb. "Or even San Antonio. We've had a good year, near as I can tell from the ledgers. We can afford a lawyer."

"Do you think that's wise?" asked Catelyn from the other end of the foyer. "We can't afford to spend money we might need if next year is bad."

"One way or another, we'll manage," Robb said tightly. "If we need it next year, we'll think of something."

"We always do," said Arya, bristling. Sansa ran her hand down the girl's untidy hair to calm her. It didn't work, but it made Sansa feel a little better.

"You're not going to the jail tomorrow, Rickon and Bran," Catelyn continued. "Nor you, Arya." Over their furious protests, she said only, "You have school, and you're all too young for such a place, and such people."

" _Such people_?" Arya demanded, outraged. "Jon is _such people_."

"I'd forbid Sansa and Robb, too," said Catelyn, "but they're adults and I have no control over them any longer." The look on her face said she was very sorry for it, too.

"Jon will know you wanted to be there," Sansa told the younger three. "And he'll know it wasn't your choice to stay away." She carefully avoided eye contact with her mother. "Go to bed, now. We'll deal with tomorrow, tomorrow."

She kissed them all on the cheek, even managing to get Arya before she could dart away, before they left for their rooms.

"Be ready first thing?" Robb asked her. She nodded, and he kissed her forehead before shuffling off to his bedroom.

Sansa was about to follow, but stopped and turned back to Catelyn.

"How did you know about Jon being arrested?" she asked, for Catelyn had not been in the room with them.

"I listened, from just outside the door," her mother replied. "I have a right to know," she added, a touch defensively.

"Yes," Sansa agreed. She looked at her mother, saw the way she seemed to have aged a decade in the past week. It was clear she was devastated by Ned's loss. Sansa knew of her own grief, but it was the grief of a daughter for her father, not that of a wife for her husband. She could not hope to understand what her mother was enduring. At the same time, however…

"I wonder if you know that you're losing your children," she said.

Catelyn jerked. "What? How?"

"Every time you say something cruel to or about Jon," Sansa said. "Don't you see how upset it makes us all? Arya is on the verge of hating you for it. Rickon, too. It'll take the rest of us longer, but…" She shrugged, then winced when it moved her bruised rib in an unpleasant way. "We love Jon. He's a good man. A good brother. We're _proud_ of him, Mother. But you're forcing us to pick sides, and I don't think you'll like which one we choose."

Catelyn stared at her for a long moment, eyes wide and mouth parted in shock. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, she recovered.

"When your father brought him home, I promised him I would treat Jon like another son," she said very quietly. "But I couldn't. Every time I looked at the boy, with that curly hair and black eyes… there was nothing of me in him. Nothing of Ned, either. Just… _her_. Whoever it was who bore him. I hated her, so I hated him."

"He never forgave me for it." Her own eyes were blazing as she looked at Sansa. "That was the only promise I ever broke to your father. The only one, Sansa! Just one, in a quarter-century of marriage."

"And he only broke one to you, too," Sansa replied dully. She had hoped… she wasn't sure what she had hoped. To try and reach her mother before she turned her own children against herself, perhaps. "You never forgave him, either. So you're even."

But it was apparent that Catelyn was too invested in her own resentments and prejudices. A wave of pity swept Sansa, then, because she had a feeling of prescience so strong it rocked her: Catelyn's husband was gone, and soon her children would be gone, and she'd be left with nothing but her jealousy and rage. It was a terrible, lonely fate, but she didn't see how she could spare her mother from it. Not if Catelyn didn't want to be spared.

"Good night," she said, tired, and went to bed.

.

.

The next morning, Sansa and Robb were up before the sun. They breakfasted quickly, and then Robb hitched the team to the buggy and they headed to town. To the surprise of exactly no one who knew her, they found their sister already there, awaiting them, having snuck out hours before dawn. Nymeria was hitched to the post outside the jail, and Arya was in the middle of a seething argument with Sheriff Clegane.

"He won't let me in to see Jon," Arya growled when her elder siblings approached.

"Because I haven't done the morning chores yet," the sheriff growled back. "You might think I sit on my thumb all day, but I got shit to do. Actual official shit. And I can't have you underfoot in the jail when I do it."

One of the saloon girls sashayed up to them as they stood there. A blowsy redhead, her hair falling out of its pins and her bosom from its bodice, yawned as she carried two stacked trays from the saloon to the jail. It was clear she was at the end of her evening, not the start of her morning.

"Heeyyyy, sheriff," she said with a flirtatious lilt to her voice. "Haven't seen you in a while. I volunteered to bring breakfast today so I could ask why you haven't been by. The girls and I miss you."

"You miss my dollar-fifty," Sheriff Clegane replied sourly, taking the trays from her hands.

"Well, yes, that too," said the girl, but her gaze was avid as it traveled over the length and breadth of the man, lingering fondly in the region between his waist and knees before she sauntered back up the street.

It was breathtakingly vulgar, and it made Sansa angry. Because it was vulgar. And not because it was being done to the sheriff. But she knew what to do in situations such as these; she had been trained from childhood how to react in a genteel, ladylike manner to every type of situation. She paged through her mental notebook of behaviors and hit upon a winner: polite pretense that the situation was not occurring in the first place.

"Sorry about that," the sheriff muttered as he kicked the door open and led the way into the jail. Robb narrowed his eyes, Arya glared, but Sansa just gazed blankly back at him as if he were apologizing for the color of the paint on the dingy walls. "Wait here until I tell you to go back."

"Ah, our jailor's dulcet tones," said a voice from the cells behind the front office.

"Shut the fuck up, Lannister," said those dulcet tones.

Clegane set the trays on his desk, took the top one, and stomped back to the cells with the tray clamped in one ham-sized fist and the big loop of keys in the other. He opened the cell on the right, thrust the tray at its occupant, then removed two buckets. Relocking the cell, he stomped up the hall and out the back door. Sansa heard the groaning protest of a water pump as it was operated, and then the sheriff was back with the buckets, one sloshing a little over the top.

He repeated this process with the cell on the left, then picked up a clipboard from his desk and made two marks on it.

"Okay," he said at last. " _Now_ you can go see him."

"I have visitors?" said the same person as before, Jaime Lannister, apparently. "It's my lucky—"

He trailed off abruptly as Sansa came into view. The light streaming in from the little window behind him fell upon her face, revealing the rainbow of healing bruises that ran from hairline to where they disappeared under the collar of her shirtwaist.

"Courtesy of your son," Arya hissed at him, and aimed a vicious kick at his bars.

He blanched. "I… I'm sorry," he said, with all evidence of sincerity and horror. To his credit, he looked genuinely ashamed.

Sansa paged through her mental notebook again, and decided that 'queenly little nod' sounded right for this situation, and turned her back on him to face Jon.

"We'll get you out of here," Robb said said to him. "We'll figure something out, I promise."

Jon offered them a wan smile.

"I was thinking," said Arya, looking miserable. "If you had stayed in the bunkhouse that night, you'd have had plenty of witnesses instead of having to deal with this— with this _bullshit_!"

"Arya," Sansa admonished gently, feeling she had to say something corrective. Sixteen-year-old girls should not use that sort of language, even if they were in a jail with alleged murderers.

"If there were ever a situation that called for cussing," Arya declared, "this is _it_."

Sansa considered it. Perhaps it was less inappropriate for eighteen-year-old girls. "You're right. Just don't cuss in front of Mother." Pause. Then, "…dammit?"

It was the worst word she'd ever used. The rest of them blinked in surprise, then burst out laughing, though it was very _tense_ laughter.

"We should have brought your things with us," Arya said. "Didn't think of it." She tsked at herself. "Stupid."

Sansa felt stupid, as well, for forgetting that he would need toiletries and at least one change of clothes. "At least you got Rickon's quilt," she said.

Jon managed a smile, at that. "Thank him for me," he said. "It came in handy."

"I'll pack up some things for you, and bring them in a few hours," said Robb. "Anything in particular you want?"

"Soap," said Lannister from across the hallway. He sounded tired. Beaten. "You'll want soap. Tooth powder. Flannels to wash with. Towels. A few changes of clothes. A deck of cards, books, pencil and paper." He sighed and turned his head to stare at the corner. "At least that's what _**I**_ want."

An unpleasant little silence followed that pronouncement. Robb looked to Jon, who nodded. Despite its source, it was sound advice.

"We love you, Jon," said Arya. She reached through the bars to him. He took her grubby little hands in his own, squeezing gently. Behind her, Robb and Sansa both nodded.

"We're so sorry this is happening," said Sansa, blinking furiously, on the verge of tears.

"I'll find out who really did it," Robb said, and the way he said it was like how men made solemn vows on their lives. "We're not going to let you swing for something you didn't do."

"I know you won't," Jon replied hoarsely.

Arya managed to hug him through the bars. Sansa insisted on him bringing his cheek within kissing distance, and Robb wrung Jon's hand with his own. When they left, Arya swept Lannister with the single most scathing look Sansa had ever seen a person give, and it made a little ember of pride glow in Sansa's chest.


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa IV

The rest of the day went poorly. Catelyn was furious with Arya for sneaking off to see Jon after being expressly forbidden, and snapped at anyone having the misfortune to go anywhere near her. Sansa had to comfort one maid and convince another not to quit on the spot. She felt weary and heartsore, and was very glad when night fell and she could reasonably excuse herself to bed.

Sansa felt little better the next morning, even as her body was appreciably less sore. The swelling had gone from her face entirely, the cut at her temple had a good solid scab without risk of pulling open, and her bruises, which yesterday had been purple, were starting to turn blue at the edges. She still looked hideous, but… she could be dead. She'd take hideous over dead any day.

She dressed in another of Catelyn's outfits, since she still could not bear the pressure of a corset on the contusions running down her right side. She ate as much breakfast as she could manage— which was still not much, her appetite having diminished from the stresses of the past week— and then went to sit in the parlor to… do nothing. Sansa was a person used to being active, helping her mother do the household activities such as menu planning, inventory of the larder and pantry, and supervision of the maids in cleaning and the laundress in caring for the family's wardrobes. They usually helped the servants with all of their labor, as well— Starks were not too good for a little hands-on labor. But until she were better, she had to just… sit.

The hours passed slowly. The house was quiet. Robb was busy with the herd, and the youngest three were back at school at Catelyn's insistence that they should try to make their lives as normal as possible. Nan asked her if she wanted any lunch, but she just requested tea, hoping she would be hungry again for supper. If this lack of appetite kept up, soon she'd fit into her own clothes without needing the corset. She glanced with amusement down at her bosom; she could not really afford to lose anything there. Perhaps she should try to eat something anyway…

Hoofbeats sounded in the yard, and Sansa looked out the window to see an old buggy pull up in front of the house. Sam Tarly climbed down, huffing a bit from the exertion of it, and hitched his team to the porch rail before climbing the steps and knocking on the door. She heard voices as Nan greeted him, and then footsteps, and then he was joining her in the parlor, his round face wreathed in a smile.

"Miss Sansa," he said warmly, shaking her hand very gently. "I hope I'm not interrupting you. I know it's a bad time—"

"Not at all," she said, gesturing for him to take a seat. "It's nice to see you, if a surprise, Mr. Tarly."

"Call me Sam, please, not 'Mr. Tarly'. It makes me sound like my father." From his expression, Sansa assumed that was a bad thing.

When he didn't say anything else, she studied him. His plump cheeks were red, and he was bouncing a little on the settee. Unless she were mistaken, he seemed… excited, as if eager to share a revelation.

"It's a pleasure to see you, Sam," she began carefully, "but did you have a specific purpose…?"

"I do!" he said quickly, like he'd just been waiting for her to ask. "Did you know that I've been apprenticing with Orton Merryweather?"

"I did not," she said. "The lawyer from the land office? How ambitious of you."

It _was_ ambitious, and hard work, too, for Sam worked all day as the telegraph operator at the post office of which his father was master. "I assume you do it after-hours?"

He bobbed his head in a nod. "After I'm done at the post office, Mr. Merryweather lets me read his law books in exchange for some filing his clerk didn't manage to finish that day. After another year or two, I can open my own office!"

"How wonderful for you," she said politely, wondering what in blazes he was telling her this for, though she was genuinely happy for him. She was aware that he had dreams of being able to support his girl so she could quit working at the saloon, though she was not supposed anything about that.

Sam gave her a wry smile. "I do have a reason for coming to see you," he said, showing that a keen mind lurked behind his affable exterior. "I started reading the law books from A to Z. I'm on P now. But when Robb came to send a telegram, and told me what had happened to Jon… how the sheriff arrested him for killing Joffrey Baratheon, which of course is ridiculous, because everyone knows that Jon would never—"

"Sam," Sansa interrupted, but gently. "If you could stay on topic…?"

"Yes. Of course. Sorry." He withdrew a handkerchief and mopped at his brow, which was dripping like a lit candle. He must be very excited indeed about whatever he was there to tell her. "When I learned about it, I remembered back to volume C… the section on Commutation, in particular."

Sansa wrinkled her forehead, trying to recall what it was, then made herself relax because of how frowning pulled at her stitches. "Isn't that when a sentence is made less severe?"

He bobbed another nod. "Yes! And there was this crazy little footnote I found— I always read the footnotes, they have the most interesting things in them— and it said that there is a way to commute any conviction, no matter how serious, even murder!"

Sansa blinked at him, leaning forward, eager to hear more. "And? What it is?"

He withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his waistcoat pocket. "I recalled it yesterday, so when I went to the land office last night, I found the footnote and wrote it down for you." He handed her the paper.

She unfolded it and saw the words boldly printed across it in square lettering:

 _The sentence of any defendant convicted of a crime against Texas law, statute, or ordinance may be commuted if he consents to marry to a willing spinster or widow, having agreed to trade one penalty for another. There is no restriction against using this measure, regardless of the magnitude of the crime. Rule of court 7:3-2, adopted July 28, 1854._

Slowly, she dragged her gaze from the paper up to Sam's enthusiastic visage.

"So… someone would have to _marry_ Jon?"

A third nod.

"But… who?" Who would be willing to marry a convicted murderer, a man they did not love, a man with few prospects due to his illegitimacy? Who could overlook such obstacles to happiness and volunteer to spend the rest of her life with such a man?

Sam's face fell, and he drooped a bit.

"I… don't know," he said, then averted his eyes. "I asked… my friend… and she said that one of her… friends… might be willing to do it."

Sansa stared at him, quartering the paper along its fold lines. "I'm sure your… friend… is very nice, Sam, and that _her_ friend is, too, but are you seriously saying that my brother should marry a… a _fancy woman_?"

A tide of scarlet washed over his face. "I… I suppose… I was? But I didn't mean anything bad by it, Miss Sansa, I was just trying to find a solution—"

Sansa took a deep breath. "No, Sam, it's… it's fine. I know you're just trying to help. If there's no alternative, perhaps… but if I decide to attempt this, I will try to find a woman who is not… employed in that way, first."

"I understand." Sam had cheered up, and was smiling again. He stood. "I can't stay any longer, Miss Sansa, I'm afraid. I could only come on my lunch break. Father is a demon for punctuality."

"I'm sure he is," she murmured, and rose as well, wincing and clutching her side as she did. "May I keep this paper?"

"Of course, I brought it for you!" He smiled, slowing his pace to match her halting steps as they walked to the front door.

The boy was a ray of sunshine, truly. _How he must vex his glum father,_ Sansa thought.

"Thank you very much, Sam," she said as he bounded down the porch steps to his buggy. "You are a good friend. Jon will be very happy to learn of your efforts."

He beamed at her and climbed up; with a gentle slap of the ribbons, he set the buggy in motion and drove out of the yard. Sansa unfolded the paper and stared down at it once more, rereading the words several more times.

"Who was that?" asked Catelyn, joining her on the porch.

"Sam Tarly," Sansa replied absently, her mind awhirl with possibilities. "He came to tell me there might be a way to help Jon."

 _That_ was a topic Catelyn did not wish to discuss, and she took herself away with speed.

Sansa lowered herself to her father's rocking chair. The ancient leather had been worn by his back and bottom into the perfect cradle for her sore body, and she tucked the paper into her sleeve cuff before closing her eyes, listening to the lowing of the herd and shouts of the hands in a distant corral.

Something had to be done about Jon. It was ludicrous that he should be arrested for Joffrey's murder; given how terrible Joff had been, the question was more a matter of who did _not_ want to kill him, rather than who _did_. She felt rather deprived for not doing it herself, when she had the opportunity.

 _What was Sheriff Clegane thinking?_ She was very disappointed in him, and could not put her finger on why, exactly. Sansa felt as if he should know better, as if he should _do_ better. She expected more of him, but could not understand why. He had shown her a bit of kindness in recent days, that was all, but she really knew nothing of him besides how conveniently he chose to favor Lannisterian interests over all others. Until recently, or so he said.

It had been an open secret in town for a decade, ever since he had arrived, in fact, first to work as foreman at the Casterly Rock Mine. His job was more to ensure the miners were not pilfering the metals they were extracting from the stone, nor the tools they used, either, and he was said to have been exemplary at it, so much so that it was not long before a word spoken into the right ear, and a few bills slipped into the right pocket, brought about the desired result: Sandor Clegane as sheriff.

Robert Baratheon had thought it hilarious, laughing over it frequently, but Sansa recalled the apprehension in her father's eyes, and knew he disliked knowing someone in a position of power was abusing it, even if it were likely to benefit himself.

Sansa sighed, and banished Sheriff Clegane from her thoughts, returning them to the quandary that was Jon's situation. Sam's idea was intriguing, but how feasible was it, really? Judge Baelish was due to return for his latest trip around the court circuit in the next week; Jon would be tried then. There was no evidence really, just motive and his foolish declarations of wanting to avenge himself upon Joffrey, but there was the matter of the unusual-gauge bullet… could that really be enough to convict a man of murder?

She had never liked Judge Baelish. He had known Catelyn from childhood, having grown up together in Baton Rouge, and she had seen him making eyes at her mother every time they happened to meet, even if Father had been right there at the time. He was doubtless aware of Catelyn's animosity toward her husband's illegitimate son. Was it possible he would convict Jon because he thought Catelyn would appreciate such a gesture? It was unfair and unconscionable, but as Sansa was learning, many things were. Possibly _most_ things were; she couldn't tell, yet. She was only eighteen years old. She had a lifetime to discover how much disappointment was to be had.

No, she could not rely on the judge's impartiality or adherence to principle for a fair verdict. She had to have something in her pocket, some insurance, to keep Jon safe from the gallows. She could not let Joffrey have him, too. Not after taking her father from them.

So all Sansa had to do was find a spinster or a widow who would marry Jon. She'd do it herself, if he weren't her brother. Sansa's mind ran over every one of her unwed female acquaintances from the ages of seventeen through forty. Right away, she eliminated those who would think themselves too good for a bastard, or— as in the case of the sole female Greyjoy, Yara— who preferred the company of another lady to that of a man. Who could she convince? He was a fine young man, strong, intelligent, kind, and Margaery had informed her on several occasions that Jon was pleasing to look at.

…Margaery? No. A Tyrell might marry a Stark, but it would be the heir, not the illegitimate one, and certainly not one convicted of murder.

Jeyne Westerling? She working in her father's feed-and-grain shop, a very pleasant and pretty and kind girl. But no, she and Robb had been keeping company— to Margaery's displeasure— in recent weeks, though only tentatively…

What about Mya Stone, whose father owned the livery? She was good with horses and mules, and Jon doted on Ghost as if the stallion were his human child… but hadn't Mya been walking out with Lothor Brune, the Arryns's foreman?

Sansa was disappointed to remember that, for Mya was an excellent contender, as she was a hard worker, and in no way fussy, preferring to dress in men's clothing and wear her hair in a simple manner, just like Brienne—

She stopped, all her thoughts juddering to a halt.

 _Brienne_.

Brienne… would be perfect.

She was just as honorable and kind and hard-working and smart as Jon was. She got along with their family. Her ranch was just next door to the Northpoint. If she were married to Jon, she could go on a drive up to St. Louis with the cattle, as she'd always wanted to do.

And Brienne was struggling, over there on the E-Star with only her sick father, and him no help at all, now. She'd tried to go it alone since Galladon had died last year, but it was clear from the weariness on her face and the sag of her sturdy shoulders that it was taking a toll on her. Sansa had worried for a while that Brienne would end up losing the ranch, and then where would she go? She knew ranching like any man in town— probably better— but none of them would hire her, not even as the lowliest hand, let alone for her keen ability to know which head would breed excellent offspring together, her expertise in developing a feed mixture that nourished her herd without making them too fatty, even her deft hand at castrating the calves and fastidious bookkeeping.

Brienne was a _catch, h_ er only setback, of course, being her appearance. Perhaps if Sansa took her aside and they discussed oil treatments for her hair, and how to use lanolin on her chapped lips, and lemon juice on her freckles? Sansa had had great luck with the lemon juice, herself…

But no. There was no time for those methods to take effect, and nothing could ever disguise her height, or lack of womanly shape, or the coarseness of her facial features. Sansa felt Brienne's face was wonderful since it belonged to her friend and thus was dear to her, but… it took time for fondness of that caliber to develop, and there was no time. Judge Baelish would be in Kingsland within days.

And what did it matter? It's not like the matter had to be prettied up: it was for convenience, to keep Jon from swinging, and give Brienne a help-mate for her ranch, not out of any grand passion between the two. She heaved a sigh, feeling immeasurably sad for both of them. Perhaps love could grow, in time. They were both fine people. Jon would not let Brienne's looks stand between a happy match, Sansa was sure of it.

She sat there, deep in thought, until it was time for her younger siblings to return home from school. The buggy flew up the drive at a rollicking pace, the ribbons in the hands of Rickon against the express direction of Catelyn, who felt her youngest son too reckless to be afforded such risky business, but Arya's philosophy was, "he'll be careful after the first busted nose" and since she herself was of the same sort, needing a painful lesson before learning something, she was doubtless right.

The three passengers clambered down, and the boys led the buggy to the barn to unhitch and take care of the team.

Sansa gave her sister a wan smile as she climbed the steps to the porch and dropped her books in their mother's rocking chair, then plunked herself on one end of the swing bench and put her feet up on the other.

"What happened?" Arya asked bluntly, giving Sansa a little jolt at how perceptive the girl was, even at only sixteen years old.

Sansa made up her mind. "Go catch Rickon and Bran before they unhitch the team. Let's go see Brienne."

.

* * *

.

Brienne III

Brienne was pumping water into one of the troughs when a buggy came hurtling down the drive in a cloud of dust. Shading her eyes— she'd forgotten her hat, _again_ , no wonder she was so freckled— she peered in that direction and recognized the flaming auburn hair, so she walked over to where it was skidding to a halt.

"Should you be jouncing all over Texas?" she asked mildly, raising her arms to help Sansa down.

"Probably not," Sansa agreed, wincing, "but this is important."

Brienne lifted a brow. "Well, come in, I made some sweet tea earlier, and I should have given Pa his lunch an hour ago." She led them to the house, entreating them to make themselves comfortable on the porch while she got them drinks.

"Sorry, Pa," she said, putting his lunch in front of him, the sandwich cut into bite-sized pieces and the tea poured into a bottle to minimize spills from his shaky grasp. "I'll be just outside if you need anything."

He smiled up at her, one side of his mouth slack but the other side beaming, and nodded. "Thanks."

She brought out three glasses of sweet tea, handed them out, and sat by Arya on the steps at Sansa's feet.

"So," she said, "what's this important thing have to do with me?"

"Well," Sansa began, and exchanged a glance with her sister before withdrawing a folded paper from her sleeve. She handed it to Brienne.

 _The sentence of any defendant convicted of a crime against Texas law, statute, or ordinance may be commuted if he consents to marry to a willing spinster or widow, having agreed to trade one penalty for another. There is no restriction against using this measure, regardless of the magnitude of the crime. Rule of court 7:3-2, adopted July 28, 1854._

She stared at it a long time, reading and re-reading it many times, wondering what it might have to do with her, until it hit her with the force of a thunderclap. Wide-eyed, shocked, she looked up at Sansa.

"Is this real?" she asked slowly, feeling a little dazed at the implications. She'd never really thought of Jon any way but as the brother of her friend, though he was nice enough. A bit short for her— or she was a bit tall for him— but beggars could not be choosers, and they were both of them beggars: he needed freedom, she needed ranch help she didn't have to pay. And if there were children, eventually… she'd always wanted some. He was a good man. She could do far worse. And it wasn't like there were masses of fellows beating down her door. This could well be the only way she'd get a husband. Humiliation and hope fought a vicious duel in her heart. "Is it possible?"

"Sam says so," replied Sansa, letting out a breath she'd been holding in suspense for Brienne's reaction.

"Nothing to lose by trying," Arya said.

Slowly, Brienne nodded. "But only if he agrees ahead of time," she said. "I won't have it sprung on him."

"I'm glad you feel that way." Sansa drained her glass and, with a groan, stood. "Let's go tell him now."

"Right now?" Brienne stood, too, and collected the empty glasses.

"No time like the present," was her friend's response. "I want to let him know right away there's a chance to save him. I can't imagine how terrible it is, in that cell, expecting to be convicted in some sham of a trial and then—"

Arya held up a hand. "No. Let's not think about that. Let's go see him."

Sansa stopped short, visibly composing herself, and forced a smile. "Ready when you are."

"I'll take my wagon separate," Brienne told them when she came back out of the house. "We'll never all three of us fit in that buggy, and I have some things to pick up in town, anyway."

But mostly she wanted to spend the ride by herself, thinking about the wisdom of this mad scheme. Marriage… she had ever thought it could be possible for her. Not to a young man, at least, but perhaps eventually to a widower who needed someone to run his house and mother his children more than he cared about his wife's appearance. Brienne thought about the height difference between herself and Jon, and sighed. They'd be a laughing stock and no mistake, but people would already be laughing at her for marrying a convict, anyway, saying that that was the only way Brienne Tarth could get a husband, so what was one more joke?

Brienne pulled her wagon up beside where Arya stopped their buggy, right beside the jail, and glanced nervously at the window where she'd spotted Jaime Lannister the day before. The sun reflected so strongly off the glass that she could not tell if he were there. She hoped he was not; it would be bad enough that he'd be present in the jail while they spoke with Jon.

"Um," she began. "You should go talk to Jon, first, without me. He might not feel comfortable saying no if I'm there."

Sansa looked confused, but Arya had a knowing look on her face. She was not conventionally attractive, either, being tomboyish and unladylike in most situations. She knew what it was to fear rejection by boys because she wasn't a pretty doll-like creature like her sister.

"I'll come get you, if he says yes," Sansa said, and continued on to the jail.

Arya, however, joined Brienne in going to the Royce's dry goods mercantile.

"Jaime Lannister," she said, her tone contemptuous, "told us a list of things to bring for Jon, but we didn't have the playing cards, so I want to get him some."

Brienne blew out a breath and thought, again, about him. If they were able to save Jon, that would be wonderful, but Jaime Lannister did not have a woman to save him in that way. One way or another, he would swing, whether he killed Robert Baratheon or not, and she felt a curious pang of regret for it. What a horrible last few days he would have.

"What else was on the list?" she asked, curious, and Arya rattled off a number of basic items as they entered the store.

"Hello, Miss Arya, Miss Brienne!" called out Myranda Royce from where she was stocking bootblack on a shelf.

"Myranda, we're the same age, you don't have to call me 'miss'," she told the other young woman with a smile.

Myranda just shrugged. "You're a customer, all customers get a 'miss' or 'mister'." She smiled, dimpling at Brienne. "What can I get for you?"

"Pack of cards," said Arya, and handed over the coins for it. Once the pack was in her hands, she turned to Brienne. "I'll go bring it to him right now."

Once she was gone, Brienne gave her order. "Sack of flour, pound of salt, gallon of lamp oil—"

Her attention was snagged, as she glanced around the store, by a neat stack of soap. It reminded her of Jaime Lannister's list. The Starks had provided Jon with a set of the things he'd need in the jail, but the other prisoner would not have enjoyed such a kindness.

"A small cake of soap," she found herself continuing. "A tin of tooth powder, two face flannels, a towel…" She stopped to give Myranda time to rush around and gather the items. "…a pencil, a notebook… and a deck of cards."

She couldn't do anything about the change of clothes, though, and wouldn't have been able to afford it, anyway. Though perhaps some of Galladon's old things would fit him… yes, she was sure of it. She'd bring some to him later tonight, after she caught up on the ranch for the time she was spending dealing with this issue instead of working.

While Brienne brought the flour and larger items out to her wagon, Myranda wrapped the smaller things in brown paper and tied it with string. Upon Brienne's return, she handed it over. "I'll put it on your account."

Brienne nodded. "Thank you." Tucking the parcel under her arm, she strode out to the boardwalk in time to see Arya come out of the jail and peer up and down Main Street in search of her. Brienne waved and loped across the street to join her.

"What's the word?" she asked.

Arya grinned. "He said yes!"

Brienne was torn between relief and regret. It was done, it was settled. No backing out now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I kept feeling that there was something missing, until finally I realized what it was: quality! Quality was missing. So I kept plugging away until I couldn't stand to look at it anymore.**

 **I've got up to chapter 15 written completely, and then various future chapters done, and it'll be somewhere between 35 and 40 chapters, all told. Lotsa smut in it, too, so it's got that going for it.**

.

* * *

.

Jon III

"You're terrible at this," griped Jaime.

"You've won fourteen times in a row," Jon griped back. "I don't know what you're complaining about."

"A man likes a challenge." Jaime sighed and slumped back against the wall. "You're not trying at all."

"I'm having trouble giving a damn about playing rock-paper-scissors."

"It's better than brooding endlessly about our tragic fates."

"Where's the sheriff?"

"Why?"

"Maybe, if I ask real nice, he'll come and shoot one of us so I don't have to listen to you any longer."

"You're a very unkind man."

"Just at the end of my rope."

Jaime squinted across the corridor at the other prisoner. "…we're probably about to hang, and you're cracking rope jokes?"

Jon realized what he'd said. "By accident, I promise you."

Jaime shrugged. "I suppose it was kind of funny."

"It _was_ funny, wasn't it?"

"Yep."

"…then why aren't we laughing?"

"I don't know about you, but I've seen a man hang." Jaime closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the rough-stuccoed wall. "Wasn't funny at all."

"No," said Jon faintly. "I expect it wasn't." He, too, shut his eyes. Through the open window overhead, he could hear the world outside, hooves clopping and tack jangling and footsteps on the boardwalk and voices, men and women and children all having regular lives and not sparing a thought for the men cooped up in jail cells and waiting to die.

Then came a familiar voice, a woman's, and then Sansa's. He hopped off his cot and carefully stood on it so he could look out his window. His sisters were there, and Brienne; she and Arya ambled across the street to the mercantile while Sansa approached the jail. He heard the door squeak open, and then the sheriff rumbled, "Miss Sansa," sounding unusually polite for him.

"Sheriff Clegane," said his sister's cool, mannerly voice. "May I visit my brother, please?"

"Sure." There was a thump, probably the sheriff dropping his feet to the floor from where he liked propping them up on his desk.

"You needn't accompany me, I can find my own way. It's just down the hall."

"It's no bother."

"I insist."

"If you're sure."

"I am."

"Alright."

Thankfully, the excruciating conversation ended and he heard the tip-tap of her shoes on the dirty floor. Jon approached the bars and tried to muster a smile when she reached him. She beamed at him, looking… excited. Like she was bursting with good news. For him? Despite his certainty that little could be done to improve his situation, he felt a little burst of hope.

"Jon, I have something a bit peculiar to tell you," Sansa told him, "but I want you to keep an open mind. Will you do that for me?"

Wide-eyed, Jon could only nod. _What is she up to?_

She handed him a piece of paper. He unfolded it and read its contents, then read them again, and then a third time.

"Are you saying," he began, "that if someone _marries_ me, I'll be pardoned? Free to go?"

"Not pardoned, commuted," Sansa said. "You'd still be convicted, and have that on your record, but the sentence will be wiped away."

Jon read it a fourth time, his mind racing. _Having agreed to trade one penalty for another_ , indeed… a life sentence bound to a woman he didn't love, thirty years or more, sharing a home with her, a bed…

He had never really thought he'd marry. He was a bastard, he had no prospects beyond working and living on his family's ranch his entire life. What woman would accept that meager a life?

"There's no one who would settle for what I could give them," he said after a moment.

"The woman I have in mind doesn't need you to provide her with anything," Sansa said quickly. "She has her own."

"Then what does she need to marry a desperate man for?"

Sansa bit her lip and looked away for a moment before murmuring, "It's Brienne."

 _Oh. Well. That explained it._

Jon liked Brienne. She was a good woman in every way that counted. Ned Stark had not only liked her, he had _respected_ her, and even made a few unsubtle comments about how he'd like to have her as a gooddaughter. Jon and Robb had exchanged eye-rolling glances. Now, considering his situation, Jon felt ashamed of himself.

He thought about her objectively. Objectively, she was… not attractive to him. Except for her eyes, which were extraordinarily beautiful. The rest of her, though… he would have to carefully cultivate scenarios in his head of women he did find appealing in order to… get the job done. He felt another burst of shame, quantifying her in such a shallow way. Looks meant nothing, ultimately; they could hide a wagon-full of sins. Just look at Cersei Baratheon: she'd cheated on her husband their entire marriage— with her _brother_ — and abandoned her children to run off with her lover, and she was the most exquisitely lovely woman he'd ever seen.

Arya bounded down the corridor toward them, ignoring the sheriff entirely.

"Did you tell him?" she demanded of Sansa before turning to Jon, her face eager. "What do you think?"

Brienne was kind and loyal. Hard-working. She was shy, ill-at-ease in crowds, which Jon himself could understand, often feeling the same. He knew he could trust her to be a good, faithful wife to him.

 _And_ , he thought with humor, _maybe their children would inherit her height instead of his._

He pictured the two of them standing side-by-side and stifled a groan. They would look completely ridiculous together. But ridiculous was better than dead, and by the look on his sisters' faces, he knew that if he hanged, it would devastate them. His brothers, too. Could he do that to them, just because he didn't want to marry a woman who didn't attract him?

"Is Brienne… she says she will?"

"Yes."

"And what will she get out of the bargain?" Jon was aware his tone of voice was self-deprecating, but it was hard to see any benefit to marrying him, at that moment. "An illegitimate husband with no property or money…"

"She has her own property. The money is something you can earn together," said Sansa quietly. "She'd get a kind man who would treat her with honor, instead of some awful person who'd think himself a hero for saving her from spinsterhood, and never let her forget it. She's so _good_ , Jon, and no one ever looks past her appearance to see it."

"She's worth ten Cersei Baratheons," Arya said, mimicking Jon's own thoughts a few moments earlier. She flashed Jaime Lannister a hostile glance. "A _hundred_ Cersei Baratheons."

"You won't get any argument from me," Jaime said easily from where he slouched on his cot. "I barely know the woman and I can tell she's better than my dear sister."

The girls glared at him and huddled closer, for better privacy, and lowered their voices.

"She'll be kind to you, too, Jon," Sansa continued softly. "She doesn't care about your birth, or that you're not bringing material goods to the marriage. She just needs help with her ranch, and if you'd like to give her companionship, and maybe children one day, she'd like that, too."

It was not a terrible future. Rather better than anything he'd dared to hope for himself, actually— he'd expected to live out his days as a dependent on the Northpoint and die with nothing of his own. Instead, he had the opportunity to work and build up his own place, with a wife, for the children they might have.

"Yes," he said at last. "If she'll have me, I'll do it."

They beamed at him.

"I'll go get her," said Arya, and sprinted away.

.

* * *

.

Brienne III

Throwing her shoulders back, she marched into the jail, nodding at the sheriff as she strode past where he sat at his desk, watching them all with curious amusement.

Jon was standing by the bars of his cell, speaking in a low voice with Sansa, but he looked up at Brienne's approach, and his lips turned up in a weak smile.

"Brienne," he said, and held out a hand through the bars. "Sansa and Arya tell me of your agreement to this mad plan. Are you sure?"

She shook his hand while flicking a glance to the _other_ cell, where the _other_ prisoner sat on his cot, looking brightly interested in all the goings-on in the hallway. Seeing her looking at him, Jaime grinned at her, in reaction to which she jerked back to face Jon.

"Yes," she said softly. Inside, she was shrinking, miserable to think Jaime Lannister was overhearing what was possibly the most humiliating moment of her life: bargaining for an accused murderer to marry her because she would never have any other prospects.

"Brienne," Jon said, and then stopped, a flush of pink coming and going in his cheeks. "Sansa, Arya… go talk to the sheriff for a moment, or something."

His sisters narrowed their eyes at him, aware he was trying to get rid of them, but obediently went back to the front office. Brienne could see Sheriff Clegane's feet, propped up on his desk, come down to the ground with a thud when the girls appeared before him, and then the rumble of his voice. She turned back to Jon, eyebrows raised in curiosity about what he had to say that he couldn't do in front of his sisters.

"I wanted to tell you that… I won't expect anything of you," Jon told her slowly, clearly picking his words with care. "This could be just a partnership between us, not a… not a real marriage, for a long time. Until we're both comfortable with each other."

Brienne had been expecting to hear something like that, but having it put so bluntly _stung_ , despite the years of practice she'd had in facing it.

"Of course not," she said, a little surprised by how hurt her voice sounded when she'd tried so hard to hide it. "I would never ask you to do something you couldn't stomach. But let's hope it doesn't come to the need for any of it. For your sake, if not mine."

She spun on her heel and left, ignoring Jon saying her name, doubtless to apologize, but Brienne preferred the honesty of knowing of his revulsion for her over some nice pretense. She passed Arya and Sansa and the sheriff, all of them watching as she strode past, and headed for her wagon. She was halfway there before she realized she still had the paper-wrapped parcel under her arm. Stopping, she sighed, letting her shoulders slump in resignation; she'd have to go back, and after she'd stomped out in a snit.

Then a voice said, "Hey."

Somehow, she knew just where it came from, and who had said it. She looked to the little jail window, and there he was. He'd gotten the window open, and now there was no glass between her and that face of his.

"Come here," he said.

She absolutely should _not_. What could he possibly want from her? What could have to say to her? It was a terrible idea. She should just give him the parcel and leave.

"I don't have long. Please?"

With a sigh, she went.

"I heard what they were telling Jon," Jaime Lannister said quickly, "and what you were agreeing to." He huffed out a breath. "Could have gone better, on his part. He's a clumsy fool."

 _Oh, damnation._ Her face heated as a blush scalded from hairline to waist. "And?"

"If it's truly possible— I want you to— please— _please_ , won't you consider marrying me instead?"

Brienne reared back. "What?"

"It's just that Myrcella and Tommen— you know that they're my children, don't you?— they're all alone, now. Bobby's dead, Cersei is… somewhere. I'm all they have left. If I die… _please_." He swallowed heavily. "Tommen is only nine."

He threw back his shoulders, standing taller, clearly scraping together his dignity. A smile curved his lips, practiced and heartbreakingly brave.

"And unlike some other unappreciative fools I could name," he continued, his voice warm and intimate, "I wouldn't _expect_ sex, but I sure would like it. All you'd give me. Children, too, if you wanted some. I'd be the best husband I could manage." He gave her a slow wink. "And I can manage quite a bit."

Wide-eyed, she could only stare at him in silence. Never in her life would she have thought she'd ever find herself in the pickle of having not one but two handsome potential husbands vying for her hand. It was laughable, and she felt a bubble of hysteria in her chest. To her dismay, and surprise, she felt a preference developing within her between the two men— in his favor. And not even because of his stupefying handsomeness, but because of his courage in asking her. She could tell he was a proud man, and how it must shame him to beg a woman— worse, a woman like her— to marry him. And he was doing it not to save himself, but his children. Whatever was making the choice for her— head, heart, stomach, perhaps even something a bit lower than the stomach— it wanted Jaime, not Jon.

But she'd already promised.

"I… I can't," she said at last. "If I marry you, then I won't be able to marry Jon. I can't do that to my friends."

The charming smile melted away, leaving his face anguished as his façade finally broke for good. He looked, then, like another painting she had seen, of a mother holding her dead son for the last time. He swallowed hard, blinking, and she realized with horror that he was stifling tears, for the love of the Seven. _Oh, gods, this is horrible. Help me. Help_ _ **him**_ _._

"I'm sorry," she whispered. She blinked and swallowed, herself, realizing her eyes were glassy with tears as well.

"It's—" His voice broke, and he swallowed again. "I understand. I can see I've distressed you. I'm sorry to have asked."

She gave him a jerky nod and turned away, taking a step before stopping and turning back.

"Oh," she said, and offered him the parcel. It was just small enough to fit through the little window. "This is for you."

She pushed it through. He took it, staring at it, and then her, in confusion. He didn't thank her, but she didn't really give him time to, hastening to her wagon and taking off down Main Street like she had the Stranger Himself on her tail. Over the river she went, and where the road ended in a T, she tensed her right arm, fully intending to tug that ribbon and go home. Gods knew she had plenty to do. She had already taken more time away from her duties than she could spare. She had no part in any of the Lannister shenanigans, nor did she want any. They didn't concern her in the slightest. It was none of her business.

But Jaime Lannister's children were all by themselves in that big ranch, with only some servants, and a lot of ranch hands. Ranch hands were not known for their manners and comportment, nor for their sexual continence.

Myrcella was just a girl. A _pretty_ girl. And Tommen was only nine, Jaime had said. And tomorrow, they'd lose the last family member they had.

She sighed.

And tugged on the left ribbon.

Ten minutes later, she was pulling up to the Double B's main house. She tossed the ribbons around the porch rail and loped up the stairs to the door, fist up to knock, but a window was flung open before she could, revealing two impossibly beautiful children. Much like their father, they were even more attractive up close than from a distance, fairly dazzling the vision.

"Um. Hello."

They exchanged a glance before looking back at her.

"Hello," said the girl. "Miss Brienne, isn't it?"

She felt absurdly pleased that Myrcella knew who she was. "Yes. I'm… I'm not sure why I'm here, really. But I spoke with your Uncle Jaime in town, just now. He was worried about you. I thought I'd come see… make sure you're alright." She stopped. Wet her lips. Swallowed past the nervous lump in her throat. "So… are you alright?"

Myrcella exchanged another look with her brother. They seemed to come to some silent conclusion, because Tommen disappeared from the window, and then the door swung open.

"Come in," he told Brienne.

Hoping she wasn't making some sort of grievous mistake, Brienne entered. Behind her, Tommen closed and locked the door, then jammed a chair under the knob while Myrcella closed and latched the window.

The interior of the house was opulent, and very uncomfortable-looking. A body couldn't relax on any of the fussy, delicate chairs, and she'd be too worried about making a moisture ring on the inlaid tables to enjoy a glass of sweet tea. It seemed an awful, too-precious place to grow up, and she felt bad for them, which was laughable— her, too-tall and ridiculous-looking and poor as dirt, pitying these beautiful wealthy children?

But as she perched on the edge of one of those fussy chairs and looked over at the settee where Myrcella and Tommen were sitting… yes. She did pity them. She, at least, knew who her father was, and that her older brother had been a fine man, and that her mother would never have deserted her. Those things were all worth more than all the wealth and beauty in the world.

"We've been fine, so far," said Tommen. "But the staff are gone."

"The women, that is," said, Myrcella her tone subdued. "Without an adult here to make them behave, the ranch hands were… getting fresh. And I didn't like how they were looking at me, the last time I went outside. So we've been staying inside."

Brienne clenched her teeth. That's what she'd been afraid of.

"So there's been no one else but the hands and us since the day after we found Joffrey."

Brienne jolted at that. " _You_ found Joffrey?"

Tommen nodded. "One of my kittens got out. 'Cella and I were chasing it through the east meadow when we saw Joff's horse just standing around."

"When we went to the horse, we found Joffrey right next to him. He had fallen off, we think," said Myrcella. "We rolled him over and saw his stomach was all bloody."

"And he smelled like a chamber pot," added Tommen.

 _Gut-shot,_ thought Brienne. Joffrey'd taken a bullet to the intestines. It was a slow, agonizing way to die. She tried not to entertain the notion that he'd deserved it richly, having always been taught not to speak poorly of the dead, but…

"We heard some hands say that Jon Snow has been arrested for it," Myrcella said. "Is it true? Did he do it?"

Brienne thought about that, and then said, "I don't believe he did. I think Joffrey shot Mr. Ned and Jory, and one of them got a shot off at him before they died, and it got him in the belly. That can take a while to die. I think he tried to get home but didn't make it in time."

The children looked down at their laps, then back up at her, accepting that logic.

"The Manderleys came and took Joff away. Reverend Brother came by, to ask about a funeral, but we said no. There'd be no one to go to it besides us. Uncle Jaime's in jail, everyone else is gone, and the people in town don't…"

Myrcella trailed off, trying to be polite, but Tommen felt no such impulse.

"Everyone hated Joff," he said. "We hated Joff, too."

"Tommen!" said Myrcella, looking scandalized. Brienne wondered if it were more because one didn't admit to hating relatives than out of protest for the sentiment itself.

"We _did_ ," the boy insisted. "He was horrible to us. He killed my cats, he'd started touching you—"

Brienne and Myrcella both flinched at that.

"Tommen…" she said again, this time in a more resigned tone.

"I know you think you hid it from me, but I knew. I know all of what's been happening." Tommen's face was pink from agitation. "People think I'm stupid but I'm not. I pay attention to everything. I _listen_. I know that Uncle Jaime is our real father, just like everyone has been saying—"

"That's just talk—"

"It's _not_ just talk, 'Cella. I heard him argue with Mother about it. He wanted to know us better but she wouldn't let him."

He and his sister stared at each other for long, silent moments, during which Brienne felt profoundly uncomfortable.

"And now we're going to lose him, too," Tommen whispered at last, slumping, looking even younger than his nine years.

"I don't know what to do next," said Myrcella wearily. "There's only one hand who we trust, he's been helping us get meals together but the cook was to have gone marketing tomorrow and there's not much left and—"

She stopped abruptly, clamping her lips together and blinking furiously. There were lines of stress around her eyes and mouth. It was clear Myrcella was under immense stress, and no wonder— she'd lost her parents, had no doubt heard disturbing things about her uncle, and now faced hunger and assault. She had tried to hold her composure for the sake of her brother, but was at the end of her endurance. Brienne's heart went out to her. She felt a powerful impulse to embrace both children, in fact. She took a deep breath and made a few, probably very unwise, decisions.

"Alright," she said calmly, "you're going to come home with me. It's only me and my father, so you won't have any fresh ranch hands to worry about. I'll make sure word gets to your grandfather that you need some help."

They looked at her, eyes wide, as if scared to believe it possible.

"We couldn't possibly impose—" Myrcella began. Her manners had been rigidly instilled by some careful duenna, Brienne could see, even as the girl laced her fingers together so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

"Sure you can!" Brienne said cheerfully, desperate to lighten the tension a bit. A girl her age shouldn't have to bear such responsibility after being dealt so many tragic blows. "It'll be nice for me to have another woman around the E-Star, and Tommen looks strong, maybe he can help me with the cattle."

"For how long?" asked Tommen, who perked up a bit at the notion of riding herd.

"I don't know," Brienne said honestly. "I'll try to get in touch with your grandfather and uncles. If I can't…" She shrugged. Forced a smile. "Always wanted a sister and a little brother."

They stared at her, identical frowns on their lovely faces, as if they were trying to decipher a mysterious language written in code. They must be entirely unfamiliar with notions of kindness and generosity and compassion, if the idea of a stranger taking care of them was so shocking and confusing. Her heart twisted for them once more, and this time she almost felt as if she might cry, so she slapped her thighs and stood up.

"Go pack," she said briskly. "Your plainest, sturdiest things. Only what can take some wear and tear. What's this trusted hand's name? I'll tell him you're leaving with me." She paused. "If you agree. I don't want to force you. But I think you'll feel safer and—" she looked around at the stuffy, too-fancy room "—more comfortable with us."

"We'll come with you," Myrcella said, looking relieved,the lines of stress already a bit less deep. "Thank you."

"His name is Pod," said Tommen. "I'm sure he's around here somewhere."

Brienne nodded. "Hurry, now."

They dashed off. She heard their feet pounding up the stairs, presumably to their bedrooms. She went to the door, pried free the chair, and stepped onto the porch.

"Pod!" she called to the left, then the right. She hoped he was somewhere within hearing distance.

"Ma'am?" said a voice from behind her. She spun to see a young man, shorter than her, with dark hair and an open, friendly face.

"You're Pod?"

He nodded. "Been sleeping in the house the past few days, so the kids aren't alone, after the house servants left. Didn't feel right, them being so young, to leave them by themselves."

"Good." His instincts about the situation, and how dangerous it could become, matched hers. "Did you hear us, just now?"

Pod nodded, unashamed to admit his eavesdropping. "Had to make sure you were on the up-and-up."

"I'm having them come stay with me. They're upstairs packing."

"Good," he replied. "I'll go pack my things, too, and follow you there soon."

"Pod?"

He blinked up at her.

"I should stay with them," he said. "They've lost everyone, this week. And you can use a hand, can't you? You're one of the Tarths, from the E-Star, aren't you? You work that place all by yourself. Can't tell me another hand wouldn't be welcome."

"I— I can't pay you," she said faintly.

He shrugged. "Can you feed me?" She nodded. Behind him, the children began pelting down the stairs. He grinned. "Better than Miss Myrcella and Master Tommen can do. They're _terrible_ cooks."

"Hey!" protested Myrcella. "I was never taught to cook. I have no idea what I'm doing!"

"And I'm nine," Tommen added in his own defense, as if being nine meant he could not possibly be held responsible for _anything_.

"I'm no gourmet chef, myself," said Brienne, "so don't expect something amazing."

"Do you know to soak beans before you cook them?" asked Pod. "Because if you know that, you know 100% more than Miss Myrcella."

He only grinned when the girl sputtered. Brienne found herself laughing, something she had never thought might happen during this visit to the Double B, and pushed them gently ahead of her to the porch.

"Everyone in the wagon," she said. "Let's get out of here."

Their suitcases went into the wagon bed, and the children climbed in the back looking as if it were a thrilling novelty to sit on a pile of hay. Since it was likely the first time they'd ridden in anything but a costly and well-sprung carriage of some sort, it probably _was_ a novelty, though Brienne didn't know how thrilling they'd find it.

She leapt up onto the buckboard and slapped the ribbons on the horses' backs. With a plume of dust left behind them, they set off for the E-Star.

.

* * *

.

Jaime II

Jaime tugged the parcel through the window and tossed it to his cot, watching as the woman practically ran away from him. She raced out of town like her ass was on fire. There was humor somewhere in it, but even he, with all his long years of practice finding the ridiculous to make life bearable, could not scrape up a smile. He'd overheard the Stark girls outline the maddest scheme he'd ever heard— that, he could laugh at, it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard— but as they went on, he realized that it was an actual, real thing… and they were making it happen.

With Brienne, that tall, odd girl with all that hair, and those lovely eyes. He was amazed, frankly, that she'd go along with such a plan, until he heard her exchange with Jon. Poor honorable sod that he was, Jon had tried to put Brienne at ease so she wouldn't be terrified at the idea of sharing a bed with a man she felt no love for or attraction to, but he'd worded it terribly. No wonder the girl had taken it wrong and run off. No woman wanted to be told that they had no hope of physical pleasure or children from the man who'd soon be her husband.

It had, perversely, given him a bit of hope. Maybe he could tempt her away…? He wasn't a young man like Jon anymore, but he was only thirty-five, with plenty of life left in him. At least until Baelish arrived and sentenced him to swing. He'd pushed that morbid thought out of his mind, and when he saw her walking to her wagon, he'd gotten her attention. He had tried to convince her, without success. But he saw her conflict and regret. If not for her bond of friendship with the Starks, she'd have done it. He wanted to be resentful, but how could he blame her for being loyal to a family who'd been nothing but good to her?

Whereas, he recalled, on at least one occasion Bobby had purposefully undercut what the E-Star was selling its head for, jealous at the excellent reputation that ranch had for its cattle. The Tarths had lost a bundle that year, and had yet to fully recover from their loss, by the look of things. And now that half of them were dead, and the father was ill, it was just Brienne. He wondered if she would be able to last another year, all by herself.

Not that it mattered. He'd be dead long before that year was up.

He went to sit on the cot but caught sight of the parcel. He'd forgotten all about it, during his musings, and he wondered what in the world she could be giving him as he untied the string. The paper fell open to reveal all the items he'd mentioned the day before, to the Starks. Brienne had somehow learned of it… and brought a set of them for him.

 _I must really be on the edge of my sanity,_ he thought when tears threatened for the second time in a short while, but the gesture was so kind, it pushed past his cynicism to touch him. Closing his eyes, he tilted back his head and concentrated on breathing. _Ah, was there ever such a pathetic man?_

When he had composed himself again, Jaime arranged everything in a neat row on his cot. What to do first? A bath, perhaps. There was half a bucket of water left, and it had been days since he'd had access to soap. He could scarcely bear himself. _No wonder she said no_ , he thought with humor as he peeled off his clothes, uncaring that he was giving Jon Snow a burlesque show.

He lathered one of the flannels, scrubbed himself, and splashed water around with abandon. It felt glorious, the best bath he'd ever experienced. There was no razor, so he was stuck with the beard, but he used the tin cup of water he'd saved to brush his teeth and that, too, went far in making his outlook brighten. He hated putting his dirty clothes back on, but at least he was clean again. He settled down, pleased at the prospect of playing a few hands of solitaire, and wondered when, precisely, his life had gone so thoroughly to shit.

Oh, it would be easy to say 'when Bobby died', but the worm had been in the apple for years. Before Joffrey's birth, before Cersei had married Bobby. Before he and his twin had begun exploring each other in unfraternal ways, even. His hands, half the deck of cards in each, fell to his lap, slack, as he let his memory spool out over the years of his life. Finally, it all fell together: Tyrion's birth. Or rather, their mother's death. Jaime did not recall Tywin as having ever been a warm father. Barely tepid, one might generously call him.

But with Joanna's death, even that tepid involvement had chilled into a wintry apathy, his children relegated to mere tools Tywin might employ for his own purposes. Was it any wonder that Jaime and Cersei had turned to each other for comfort? Was it any wonder that, with a role model like Tywin, Cersei would end up being so shallow and greedy and manipulative?

Sunk in misery, Jaime did not even notice time had passed until Sheriff Clegane came through with supper. He accepted the evening's tray and sat back on his cot, examining his meal: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, all of it doused with redeye gravy. A month ago, he wouldn't have fed it to a dog; now, he dug in with eagerness, and felt damn near to licking the plate clean. Amazing how one's outlook could change after shitting in a bucket for a week and a half.

He spent the evening writing in his newly-acquired notebook, something that had been on his mind increasingly the last few days, and now that Miss Brienne had so-kindly given him the means to do something about it, he wasn't going to waste his chance. When he was done, and the trays had been collected once more, and the tin lantern in the hallway ran out of oil— the sheriff's lazy way of declaring time for 'lights out'— Jaime lay in his cot wrapped in the tissue-thin, holey blanket he'd been issued, as well as Jon's.

Jon had tossed his holey blanket across the corridor to Jaime after Clegane presented him with an inch-thick quilt, courtesy of his youngest brother. Jaime had thought Jon would cry for a split second. Then he thought _he_ might cry, longing for his own brother at that moment, wanting to hear one of Tyrion's filthy jokes, to look into his mismatched eyes and know that there was at least one person in the world who gave a damn about him. Standing in the corridor between their cells, the sheriff had a look of dawning horror on his face as he realized the fragile mental states of his prisoners.

The moment passed for Jon, thankfully, and he only blinked a few times. Jaime followed his lead, and then everything was properly manly again. Clegane had let out an audible sigh of relief before fleeing.

And so Jaime was on his second night enjoying the luxury of two blankets that warmed him about as well as tablecloths might have done. _Well,_ he thought with circumspection, _at least it's better than only one tablecloth._ The sheriff had mentioned that Judge Baelish was expected in town the following day, and it was likely their trials would occur. Jaime tried to scrape up some speck of concern for himself, but there was nothing. For Tommen and Myrcella, he felt a howling void of despair, but for himself…

He fell asleep, and dreamed of nothing at all.


	10. Chapter 10

Jon IV

The morning of the trial, Jon was awoken by a persistent beam of sunlight spiking through the tiny window, through his closed eyelids, and directly into his brain. It was, he figured, a fitting start to the day he would most certainly be convicted of murder. Sheriff Clegane came by with the daily bucket of water, and Jon washed up in silence, his stomach in knots. He waited until after breakfast to dress, not wanting a streak of egg yolk down his waistcoat when he had to make the best impression of his life.

Once his meal was over, he put on the suit that Robb had brought him and sat down to wait. He glanced across the corridor and saw Jaime Lannister just finishing his own breakfast. He had nothing else to change into, and looked like ten miles of bad road. Somehow he'd gotten his hands on some soap and tooth powder, and looked (and smelled) a hell of a lot better than he had, but his hair was a tangled wreck and his clothes were fit only for the rag bin.

Jon tossed his comb across the corridor, then balled up his last clean shirt and chucked that after it. Jaime, staring with apathy down at his hands, looked up when the comb clattered to the floor.

"Make yourself presentable," Jon mumbled. "The might hang us, but they'll hang us looking pretty."

Jaime was surprised into a laugh. "We'll be the best looking corpses that ever hung from a noose," he agreed. Stripping off his shirt, he used it with a bit of water and soap to spot-clean his trousers and waistcoat, then buffed his belt and boots to, if not a shine, then to less of a dingy state. On went the fresh shirt, and he managed to give his necktie a jaunty knot. By the time the sheriff came to take them to court, he looked very close to presentable.

"Ah," Jaime said, "might I trouble you gentlemen to be my witnesses for something?"

Clegane frowned. "For what?"

Jaime produced a cheap little three-penny notebook and a pencil. "Last will and testament," he replied. He swallowed. "There might not be anyone to raise my children, after today, but at least they won't be _poor_ orphans."

Jon and the sheriff exchanged a glance of pity while Jaime averted his eyes and pretended not to notice.

"Sure," said Jon. "Be glad to."

"Wait," said Clegane, and stumped off to his desk, returning with a battered fountain pen. "Pencil won't matter worth a damn if someone fights it." He handed over the pen. "Re-write it."

Jaime blinked and then nodded. "It's not long. Won't be a moment."

He sat on his cot, turned to a fresh page, and began to scribble. He was done in minutes, even as he cursed a blue streak every time the old pen vomited out another blotch of ink. "Done," he announced, standing and holding it out to the sheriff.

Clegane's keen eyes moved over the page. "Everything equally to your kids."

Jaime nodded. "I wish I could have been…"

"Been?" prompted the sheriff, scribbling his name across the bottom, under Jaime's, and then handing notebook and pen to Jon.

"A father to them. Or even just an uncle. I wasn't allowed to be either."

There were worse things than being a bastard, it seemed. Jon carefully kept his gaze on the page he was signing, his mind heavy. He might have been deprived of a mother, but he'd had his father, the best father a person could have, even if Ned had been taken away prematurely. The two youngest Baratheons had grown up with mother _and_ father, both of them awful as well as Jon could tell. Maybe quality of parenting mattered, not quantity. He handed the notebook back.

"Might as well take it now," Jaime to the sheriff. "Probably won't be coming back here. Will you get this to my brother? He's on his way here, but I don't expect him for a few more days, and…"

He left _and I'll be dead by then_ unsaid, but they all knew it was true.

"Yeah," said Clegane gruffly. He took the notebook and locked it in a desk drawer, then returned to them with two sets of handcuffs. "Hands out."

The prisoners put their hands out through the bars; Clegane clapped handcuffs on them, then opened the cells.

"Walk ahead of me," he said, looking as solid and immovable as Casterly Rock. Any vague thoughts Jon might have had for escaping were pointless; Clegane could probably wipe the floor with both of them even had they been unbound.

"Gonna be a full house," the sheriff commented as they walked to the front room. Outside, Kingsland teemed with humanity, all eager for the entertainment of watching the lives of two men been quantified and disposed of. Resentment swelled within Jon, and a deep anger; it was barbaric, to take such joy from the despair of others. If this mad plan of Sansa's worked, and he ended up married to Brienne instead of dead, he was going to have to find some way of interacting with these people, and he didn't know how he'd manage. How could he pretend they weren't all there to ogle and laugh at his suffering?

"Oh, good," muttered Jaime as Clegane attached a length of chain from his cuffs to Jon's. "Just what I wanted: a huge audience to watch me die."

"Out the back door," the sheriff instructed next. "We'll never get to the hotel through this crowd."

He followed them through the scruffy back yards behind the row of shops and businesses. They skirted around broken bottles and slick, smelly patches where chamber pots and buckets had been emptied. Jaime had to step lively to avoid being gnawed on by a nanny goat irate not to have been milked yet that morning, her udder so heavy that her teats were brushing the ground. Jon would have wanted to gnaw on someone, too, it looked that uncomfortable.

At the rear of the hotel was a man no taller than Jon, smoking a long, thin cigarillo, the smoke wafting lazily around his head as he exhaled. Jon recognized him as Petyr Baelish, who had visited the Northpoint a few times over the years to visit Catelyn. He'd been her beau in their youth, and they'd remained friends, despite her lack of romantic interest in him, and the way he always watched her— adoring, yet proprietary— made Jon's skin crawl.

As their trio approached, Baelish smirked and flicked the stub of the cigarillo away, then plucked a mass of black fabric from where it had been hanging from a nail jutting from the wall.

"Right on time," he said in a voice oddly husky for such a slender fellow, and swung the judicial robe around his shoulders. He thrust his arms in the sleeves and buttoned up the front in smooth, practiced motions. "One thing I can say for you, Clegane, you're never late."

The sheriff's face was impassive, but Jon got the impression that he would have liked nothing more than to pop the man's head off his neck.

When he received no answer, the man smiled fully. "Yes, no point in exchanging pleasantries. We have trials to get to." He pushed open the door. Inside, the buzz and hum of a hundred people speaking at once trailed off into a silence so acute Jon had to lock his knees to keep from running away. "That's your cue," Baelish said from between gritted teeth, but the sheriff didn't make a peep. Then, louder, "Say it, damn you."

Clegane only laughed. Baelish sliced him a glare so sharp it should have drawn blood and entered the hotel ballroom, announcing himself as his robe billowed behind him like a schooner in full sail.

Jaime led the way, chin up in a way that inspired Jon to do the same. He ignored the avid stares of those assembled, especially wanting to avoid any of his family that might be there. If he saw the expressions on Robb's face, or Sansa's, he might not make it through without embarrassing himself.

Clegane gestured to the two hard-backed chairs positioned to the side, and Jon and Jaime each took one. Baelish ensconced himself behind the table, withdrew a small gavel from his breast pocket, and beat on the table with it precisely three times.

"Court is in session," he declared again. "The Honorable Petyr Baelish presiding."

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* * *

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Jaime III

"The docket today features the cases of Texas vs. Lannister, one count of murder, and Texas vs. Snow, one count of murder," sad Judge Petyr Baelish, a smarmy fucker if Jaime had ever seen one. And he'd seen a few. "Jaime Lannister, you stand accused of killing Robert Baratheon. How do you plead?"

Jaime stood. "Not that it will do any good, but just for the hell of it… not guilty," he drawled. A ripple of laughter went through the crowd, and he played to it, turning to glance over the assembly. He winked and grinned at Margaery Tyrell, who was front and center (as she always managed to be at any event) and she blushed; various other young ladies tittered and sighed in response.

Baelish's lips compressed in displeasure. "What is the state's evidence against Mr. Lannister?" he demanded of the sheriff.

Clegane came forward and tossed a letter to the table before the judge. "Got a letter from Renly Baratheon stating that Lannister is the actual father of all of Cersei Baratheon's children, and that he's a jealous bastard who's wanted to kill Robert Baratheon for years so he can have his sister to himself."

"Professional language, if you please, Sheriff," admonished Baelish.

"Yeah, we're real professional, here," Clegane replied, his voice low but still clearly carrying throughout the room, with the result of a few more laughs.

"Any witnesses?" the judge snapped.

"One," said Clegane, and Jaime's posture straightened; he had not expected that. "Come on up," the sheriff said to the crowd, and a young man shouldered his way forward.

" _Lancel_?" demanded Jaime, only the chain connecting him to Jon keeping him from launching himself at his cousin and doing him some grievous harm. "What are you—" Then, abruptly, he stopped, his confusion melting away. He knew precisely why his cousin was there.

 _Cersei_. Somehow, wherever she was, she'd gotten word to Lancel, had promised him something— probably her own luscious self— in exchange for his false testimony. She was hedging her bets, making sure that someone, _anyone_ , was blamed for Bobby's death so _she_ would not be. Jaime waited for the pain, the betrayal, the rage, but all he felt was tired. He couldn't even pretend to be surprised by Cersei anymore. He'd known for years she was capable of anything; all she'd lacked was the opportunity to express the cruelty she'd cultivated in herself over the decades. Now, here, she had the opportunity, and Jaime was to benefit from it.

 _Lucky me._

"That's enough," said Baelish, and rapped his gavel on the table. "Lancel Lannister, do you swear to tell the truth, by all seven gods?"

Lancel swallowed and nodded.

"I need a verbal confirmation, Mr. Lannister," the judge said, his tone impatient.

"Yes, ser!" exclaimed Lancel.

"Proceed."

"What did you see the night Robert Baratheon was killed?" Clegane asked him.

"I saw my cousin, Jaime, sneak from behind the barn into the back door of the main house," Lancel replied shakily. "I was curious, so I followed. I heard loud voices from inside, so I went to the window and looked in."

"What did you see inside?" the sheriff prompted, sounding bored.

"I saw Bobby and Cersei and Jaime arguing. Then I s-saw Jaime take the big river stone from Bobby's desk and hit him in the head with it."

Jaime was nearly vibrating with anger, by that point, but he said nothing.

"Bobby fell to the ground. Cersei ran from the room. I could hear her footsteps going upstairs. Jaime snuck back out, so I hid myself behind a tree so he wouldn't see me. Then he went back behind the barn. A minute later, I heard a horse ride away."

"I see." Baelish turned to Jaime. "Does the defense have any questions for this witness?"

"The defense has a boot to the ass for this witness," Jaime growled. "You traitorous, lying, _stupid_ sack of shit. She doesn't love you. You'll get nothing from her for doing this, Lancel."

Lancel, already pale, went gray. "I don't know what you mean," he said faintly.

Baelish grimaced. "You are dismissed." Once Lancel had scurried away, the judge turned back to Jaime. "Do you have any witnesses to call?"

"No," said Jaime coldly.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"Only that I didn't do it, and my sister has somehow bribed or coerced our idiot cousin into lying so the blame won't fall on her," Jaime replied. "But you don't care about that."

Baelish scowled. "If you have no witnesses, then based upon the evidence presented to me, I find you guilty of murder. Sentencing to follow after the pending trial. You may sit."

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* * *

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Jon V

Jaime's trial went about as well as expected. Within ten minutes, it was over, and he sat back down as if his weight had suddenly trebled.

"Jon Snow," said Judge Baelish. Jon stood. "You are accused of killing Joffrey Baratheon. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty," he said firmly, his voice ringing out in the ballroom.

"What is the state's evidence against Mr. Snow?" the judge asked Sheriff Clegane.

"Snow was twice overheard saying he wanted to go after Baratheon."

"Why?"

"Because Joffrey beat the shit out of Snow's sister, and then killed their father, Ned Stark, and the Northpoint's foreman, Jory Cassel."

Baelish's eyebrows hiked up toward his hairline. "Any proof of those murders?"

"No, but it's pretty damned likely."

"I see." The judge peered into the crowd. "Is Miss Stark here today?"

"Yes, Your Honor," came a soft voice, and the crowd parted so Sansa could step forward. In the days since Joffrey's attack, her bruises had faded, but were still very evident, and the loose fit of her dress and careful way she moved announced that she was injured as clearly as if she held up a sign. The judge scrutinized her for a long moment, but in a way that seemed less like he was surveying evidence and more like he was taking the opportunity to stare at a pretty girl.

"Seen enough?" snarled Sheriff Clegane, stepping deliberately between the judge and Sansa. "Snow had motive."

"Who heard Mr. Snow make these statements?" Baelish asked.

"I did."

"Ah, giving evidence, yourself, Sheriff," the judge said lightly, then added, "and of course, your testimony is irreproachable."

Clegane looked like he wanted to launch himself over the table and rip Baelish into a hundred tiny pieces, but managed to restrain himself with only minor gnashing of teeth.

"What else?" the judge asked, his tone becoming more brisk. Clearly, he wanted to move along instead of taunt the very large and angry man only a few feet away from him.

"The gun used to shoot Baratheon is rare. Uses homemade forty-gauge rounds. Snow has one. It was missing one bullet. Claims he used it to shoot a snake in Missouri while driving cattle up to St. Louis."

"Any witnesses?"

Clegane looked back into the crowd; Meryn Trant stepped forward. He shot Jon a look filled with malevolent delight, and Jon understood the sheriff's urge to start tearing chunks off another person.

"Who's this?"

"Meryn Trant," the man replied.

"Mr. Trant, do you swear to tell the truth, by all seven gods?"

Trant said, loudly and clearly, "I do!"

"You're not getting married, Mr. Trant," commented the judge. "No need to be so dramatic. A simple 'yes' will suffice."

Chastened, and grumpy about it, Trant slumped a bit and muttered, "Yes."

"Mr. Trant, did you recently accompany Mr. Snow on a cattle drive to St. Louis?"

"Yes."

"And during the course of that drive, at any point while he was in your company, did Mr. Snow discharge his weapon?"

"No."

Jon surged to his feet. "You're a liar," he ground out. "That snake would have bitten you if I didn't shoot it." Trant only smirked. "Should have let it."

"Mr. Snow, are you not already in enough trouble?" Baelish asked him, rather reptilian himself. "I suggest you keep such hostile sentiments to yourself. And sit back down."

Jon lowered himself to his chair once more, feeling as if he could set Trant on fire with the force of his anger alone.

Judge Baelish addressed Trant once more. "Ser, it is your sworn statement that Mr. Snow never used his firearm in your presence?"

"He did not," Trant said.

Baelish nodded. "You may go." To Sheriff Clegane: "Anything else?"

"His bedroom's on the ground floor, and no one can vouch for his presence the night Baratheon was shot. But—" Clegane stopped, drew a breath, and forged ahead. "His pistol wasn't the only LeMat in town. His father, Ned Stark, had one, too. It's possible that Stark shot Baratheon before dying. But…"

"But?"

"But Stark was buried with the gun. We'd have to exhume him. And the widow won't permit it."

"No, she wouldn't," Baelish said softly. His face had taken on a dreamy cast that sent a ripple of gooseflesh crawling up Jon's back.

" _You_ could order Stark exhumed, though," continued the sheriff.

"I could, yes," agreed Baelish. He was silent a moment, contemplating. "But I won't. I find there is enough evidence to support the use of Mr. Snow's weapon, and no reason to disturb the final rest of a good man whose life ended too soon."

The words were kind, but there was something off about the tone that set Jon's teeth on edge. Baelish didn't mean a word of it; he just didn't want to alienate Catelyn by forcing the exhumation she did not want.

"Based upon the evidence presented to me, Mr. Snow, I find you guilty of murder. Sentencing to follow immediately." Everyone began talking excitedly in reaction. "Order!" he commanded the room.

Jon swayed on his feet, feeling the blood drain from his head. He'd known this would happen, he'd _known_ it, but still…

He looked out into the crowd, and saw Sansa there, and Robb, and Arya. She must have snuck away from school again. He'd tease her about being glad to have a trial to attend, to give her an excuse to skip school again… if their plan with Brienne worked out.

He searched the crowd for her, finding her easily because of her height. She was standing in the back, and somehow looked both ruddy and gray at the same time. He felt bad for how he'd muddled what he had hoped would put her at ease but ended up making her think he was repulsed by her. He wasn't. He just didn't want her to think he expected her to be a wife to him, in the fullest meaning of the word, until she was comfortable enough to do it. He'd feared, for a moment, that she would change her mind, but… no. Brienne was a true friend to Sansa, who had assured Jon that their marriage would benefit her and the E-Star just as much as it would him by saving his life.

 _Gods,_ he thought as a drop of sweat rolled down his back. _I hope this works._

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* * *

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Jaime IV

Jaime fell heavily onto his chair, feeling dizzy and nauseated and hollow. That was it? That was how his life was going to end? As if from a distance, he heard the judge's voice as he began Jon's trial, but couldn't make out the words. Blindly, he stared out at the crowd, at all the faces watching, waiting, just blotches of various shades of pink and brown, until one in particular came abruptly into focus.

Brienne Tarth, taller than anyone else in the room, except for the sheriff, stood in the back of the room, and she was staring at him with an expression that was unlike anything he'd ever seen before. There was pity, of course— he was pretty damned pitiable in that moment, so, no surprise— but also a weird kind of… determination? For a moment, he almost thought she might storm the front of the ballroom, grab him by his chains, and haul him out of there. For a moment, she looked like someone who had dedicated her life to uplifting the downtrodden. For a moment, with that face of righteous anger, she could almost be a knight, wielding a sword and cutting a swathe out of anyone separating her from Jaime. The idea suited her, and amused him, and he smiled.

She startled, almost comically, and then blushed to a degree that looked painful. He smiled wider; shame he hadn't realized before now, the last day of his life, how fun it was to make her do that. He could have spent quite a few hours seeing exactly which hues of red he could inspire her to turn. Ah, but there was no use longing for what one would never have.

He only wished his memories of Cersei— the sacrifices he'd made in order to have as much of her as she had permitted— were enough to make his current situation worth it. They weren't. He would go to his grave with nothing but regrets and the knowledge that he had wasted his life being a disappointment to everyone in it.

Jaime barely noticed when Jon's trial was over, only that his own name was eventually called and he was told to stand.

"Jaime Lannister, having been found guilty, you are hereby sentenced to hang by the neck until dead."

"Okay," he replied dully, and sat back down. Jon's name was called, and he stood.

"Jon Snow, having been found guilty, you are hereby sentenced to hang by the neck until dead."

The voices in the room were just buzzing, by that point, like flies or wasps, having nothing to do with him—

"N-no!" a woman shouted. Vague interest pulled Jaime's attention up, up, up from the depths to which it had sunk, and he watched as Brienne Tarth pushed through the crowd. She glanced at Jon, then at Jaime himself, then squared her shoulders and faced Judge Baelish.

 _Yes,_ he thought. _She should have a sword, and a suit of armor, and no army could stand against her._


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who reviews, it keeps me enthusiastic and writing! So far, this story has over 95,000 words and will probably end up being in the neighborhood of 140,000. God help me.**

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* * *

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Brienne III

The morning of the trial dawned clear and dry. Under normal circumstances, Brienne would be glad for such a day; she'd be able to get a lot accomplished, work until dark and then sleep soundly. The mood was somber at the E-Star, however, because this was the day Jaime Lannister would die. Myrcella took a single spoon of scrambled egg and couldn't even finish that much; Tommen ate with enthusiasm, but as soon as he was done, he put his hand over his mouth and rushed from the house, barely making it outside before hurling his breakfast across the yard.

Brienne didn't feel much like eating, either, her stomach doing the Highland Reel from nerves. Today, she'd be returning to this ranch with a husband, a married woman. Her father kept shooting her glances while he ate. She'd explained the plan the night before, and though he couldn't say much anymore, he had a way of making his eyes speak for him. She knew just what he was thinking. He wanted her to be married, wanted her to have a husband and children. He just didn't like the idea of her wedding a convict, even if it were nice Jon Snow from the next ranch over. Pa hated the idea of Brienne being used by a man to escape death. Thought she deserved better. But he'd be just as kind and polite to her new husband as he was to everyone else, which relieved Brienne. She didn't want to have to live in a house of tension and resentment.

He'd always had an unrealistic view of her, just like her mother and Galladon, but then she thought her parents and brother beautiful, too, because she loved them so dearly, so she understood his frustration with her actions. But she wasn't blind, and she wasn't stupid. Pa was ugly, Ma and Galladon had been ugly, and Brienne was ugly. Having the handsome Baratheon children around just threw her poor looks into greater relief in comparison.

"I should go," she said, and pushed her chair in with her hip, hands full of plate and glass. "Leave the dishes in the sink, I'll get them when I return."

"I'll wash them," said Myrcella. "I don't mind." She peeked at Pa. "Maybe Mr. Tarth can tell me what to do, to make sure I don't make a mistake."

He beamed his now-lopsided smile at her and nodded, happy to be able to help. "Water," he said, pointing to the pump poised over the bowl of the sink. "Kettle." He pointed to the kettle on the stove. "Hot."

Myrcella obediently went to fill the kettle and put it to heat on the stove.

"Tommen," said Pa, "wood?"

The boy nodded, still wan from his nausea. "I'll get some."

Brienne couldn't help but smile, and she ducked to buss her father's cheek before she left, aware of Myrcella watching wistfully at the show of affection. Brienne was sure no one did that sort of thing in the Baratheon/Lannister family. She paused, considering, then made up her mind and marched over to the girl.

"Miss Brienne?" Myrcella asked, confused, but quieted, gaping, when Brienne dropped a kiss on her forehead.

"Thanks for washing up," she said. She turned to leave and had to dodge to the side to avoid Tommen barreling back in, arms laden.

"After the dishes are done, Tommen," Brienne said casually, "maybe you'd like to help Pod out in the corral today?"

His face lit up like a candle. She leaned forward and kissed his forehead, too.

"Good boy," she said, feeling as if she were complimenting a well-performing herding dog, but… she had no experience praising children. Was there another way it should be done? "See y'all later."

She avoided her father's laughing eyes and scurried from the house, leaving Tommen just as startled as his sister.

Her lightened mood darkened with every step her team took toward town, breakfast roiling in her usually-rock-solid belly from nerves. How in the world could she do this? Drawing attention before all of Kingsland was bad enough, but to do it in this way? For this reason? She knew, she _knew_ , that everyone would think it was because it was the only way to get a husband, her being so homely and poor. Not one person would think she was doing it out of charity, out of the desire to save an innocent man from hanging. And not only would they all think the worst, they'd think it for the rest of her life. Was she really going to volunteer to make herself an even bigger joke than she already was?

The answer was yes, of course. Of course she was. Her shame and hurt were real, and powerful, but they had nothing on a man's life. She'd never be able to live with herself if she had the means to save him but didn't, because she was _embarrassed_. With a sigh, she resolved to just… make it through. Somehow. Mockery and humiliation never killed a body.

Kingsland was, of course, packed solid, everyone coming from all over the county to get a good view of the trial and, even more importantly, the execution. The hotel's dance hall, optimistically referred to as a 'ballroom', was the only room large enough to fit even half of the people eagerly trying to gain admittance. Brienne gave up on finding somewhere to hitch her team on Main Street and just drove her wagon behind the long row of buildings along Main Street and tied it up by the train stop. Be easier to leave again when it was all over, too.

Feeling as if her boots were lined with lead, Brienne dragged her feet as she trudged to the hotel, still wibbling over what she had to do, still seesawing back and forth between her options. Do it, or don't do it?

Entering the ballroom, she stayed to the back, easily able to view the entire room due to her height. There was a table placed at the far end of the room with a chair behind it, and two other chairs next to each other, at right angles to the table. The rest of the room was bare of furniture. She saw Sansa and Robb across the room, Sansa on tiptoes and craning her neck in search of someone. It must have been Brienne she sought, because as soon as she saw her friend, her face lit up with relief and she smiled, then waved. Brienne gulped, and smiled back, but made no effort to fight her way through the throngs of people to the Starks' sides. If she was going to be a damned coward and not go through with it, she didn't want to be right next to them when it happened.

There was a thunk as the door opened, revealing Judge Petyr Baelish, his petite frame swathed in a long black robe. He was glaring fiercely at someone hidden behind the open door. Faintly, she could hear him hissing past clenched teeth, "Say it, damn you."

The only response was a raspy chuckle, and Brienne realized the sheriff was laughing at Judge Baelish. With viciously narrowed eyes, the judge glared fit to set Clegane on fire and marched into the room, proclaiming, "All rise! The court of the Honorable Petyr Baelish is now in session."

"All rise?" she heard Oberyn Martell say in his lilting accent. "There are exactly three chairs in this room, all of them unoccupied. Who is to rise?"

She bit her lip to keep from braying with nervous laughter. Behind Baelish trudged Jaime Lannister and Jon Snow, their hands shackled and a length of rusty links connecting them like a two-man chain gang. Both stood stubbornly straight, heads high, their faces rebellious. If the smirk on the judge's face were any indication, he was eagerly awaiting the chance to knock each of them down a peg or three.

The proceedings, as she had expected, were a sham. She watched as Jaime alternately flirted and seethed his way through the farce of his trial. His exquisite face was rigid when he was pronounced guilty. Jon's trial didn't go any better, and he was just as quickly convicted. Right away, they were sentenced to hang.

 _It was time_. She had to speak.

It was time.

 _Now, Brienne_.

Now. Now!

"N-no!" she made herself shout. "I invoke the rule of court that commutes a man's sentence if a woman marries him."

Judge Baelish's face contorted in frustration. "What rule of court is this?" he demanded.

Sickeningly aware that the eye of every person in the room was on her, easily hearing the excited whispers coming from all around, Brienne strode forward. She shouldered aside the crowd and thrust the paper in the judge's face. Baelish snatched it from her hand, his pale eyes darting over it, and a slow flush started at his collar, spreading upward until his entire face was an angry red.

"If you want to see the law book, I'm sure we can… find it and bring it to you," Brienne told him.

She looked back over the crowd for Sam Tarly. He was there, halfway to the back, bouncing on tiptoes to see over taller persons in front of him, and when he heard her, he waved his arms and shouted, "Yes! I've got it!"

"Bring it," Judge Baelish commanded.

Sam bustled forward and held it out; Sheriff Clegane took it and slapped it onto the judge's outstretched palm. Baelish opened it to where a slip of paper marked the page, and ran a fingertip down the page until he found the pertinent section. His eyes narrowed as he read, more and more until they were hardly open at all.

Then he lifted his head and shut the book in quick, jerky movements before handing it back to Clegane. Sam took the book back and receded into the crowd.

"Very well. Miss—" he began, his voice glacial.

"Tarth. Brienne Tarth."

"—Miss Tarth, which of these gentlemen will be your new husband?"

Brienne's breath sawed in and out of her chest, her lungs heaving so hard they ached. How could she do this?

She thought of who would be left behind, devastated, vulnerable, if he died. Their suffering would be on her conscience for the rest of her life.

 _How could she not?_

She croaked a name, but it was incomprehensible. She licked her lips, swallowed. It didn't help. She sucked in more air and tried again, louder.

"Jaime Lannister."

The man in question had hung his head when convicted, not expecting anything but a march to the noose, the very image of dejection. His head snapped up, now, and the dead expression faded from his eyes, replaced by a wild hope. Brienne could only meet his gaze for a second before she flinched away from the force of it.

Behind her, the ballroom had gone absolutely silent for a few seconds that felt like hours. Then, in a rush, everyone started speaking at once. Brienne was sure she could hear Sansa's voice exclaiming her name.

"I'm sorry," she said to Jon, her eyes filling with tears. She was the worst friend in the world, the worst _person_ , a liar and a schemer. She didn't deserve his comprehension, or his forgiveness, but she couldn't keep from speaking, from trying, anyway. "I'm so sorry, Jon. But his children… they don't have anyone else. They don't have _anyone_. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

His eyes were wide, shocked. There had been confusion on his face at first, but it settled into resignation and a sort of exhausted acceptance.

"I understand," he said wearily. "I don't blame you."

Sheriff Clegane unlocked Jaime's handcuffs. Jaime rubbed his wrists almost absently; his focus was on Brienne, his sharp green eyes not moving from her for a second. She felt profoundly uncomfortable to be the recipient of such attention, but she couldn't look away, and she couldn't stop crying.

"Dry your tears, Miss Tarth," said the judge in his oily tone. "It's your wedding day."

Brienne clamped her eyes shut and took a few deep breaths, reaching inward for the fortitude which had gotten her through losing her mother and Galladon, which had kept her going when they'd had that bad year a while back and thought they'd have to sell the ranch. She had lived through all of that. She'd live through this, too.

When she opened her eyes, they were dry. Her face was hot, and she knew she was still flushed from crying and likely uglier than she'd ever been in her life. It felt like she should be even more ugly, now, her act of treachery in choosing Jaime instead of Jon showing as a physical mark, a scarlet letter like in that book she'd once read, branded on her cheek to warn others away from her perfidy.

"I'm ready," she said, her voice flat. An unnatural calm had fallen over her. She'd made her choice; now she had to live with it. A brush against her sleeve alerted her that her betrothed had stepped up beside her. She glanced at him, noting that he was very nearly her match in height. That was something, she supposed.

He opened his mouth to speak.

"Later," she said. "Let's… just get this over with."

He blinked, then nodded. Brienne turned to face forward.

And married him.

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* * *

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Dany II

Dany had not gone into Kingsland for several days, having been occupied in finalizing a loan to Edmure Tully for the purpose of diverting a bit of the Colorado River onto his property, with a goal of establishing a freshwater fishery. She was not sure it would work, but if it did, she would be a bit richer, and if it did not, she'd come to own a bit of bottom land that she was positive she could find a productive use for.

Thus she was puzzled, upon arriving in town, to find it absolutely mobbed, not an empty hitching post to be found. She ended up having to tie her team and buggy to a fence out by the train stop, and as she walked up the street toward the land office— she wanted to ensure that Edmure had properly filed the paperwork needed for such an undertaking, having learned never to trust others to dot every i and cross every t— she wondered what in the world was going on.

She stopped the nice gentleman who ran the livery, Davos Seaworth. "What is happening?"

His eyebrows went up in surprise. "The trials," he said. "Lannister and Snow, for murder. Lannister for Bobby Baratheon, Snow for Joffrey."

She blinked, shocked. She had known Jaime Lannister was in jail for his goodbrother's murder, but had not heard a word about Jon Snow. She did not know anything about Lannister, or how guilty (or innocent) he might be. The idea of Jon Snow hanging from a noose, however— face purple, feet kicking, body going limp after a last few terrible moments— was unpleasant to her, and growing more so with each passing second.

She remembered him at Ned's funeral, and how his clenched fist had felt under her hand, warm and strong. There had been nothing triumphant about him, that day, nothing to indicate he had served justice upon his father's killer, just grief and despair and loss. He had not done this. The son of good Ned Stark should not die for a crime he did not commit.

"Excellent odds they'll swing," Davos was continuing. "You want to put a dollar on it? Or against it, if you're a woman who likes a challenge?"

Dany did happen to like a challenge, but was a bit repulsed that there was a betting pool established for such a thing. "No, thank you," she said politely, and took her leave. She hurried on to the land office, but as she walked, the knowledge that two men were about to be condemned sat like a stone in her chest. She rushed through her business there and was back out on the street within minutes.

 _I will have lunch at the hotel,_ Dany thought, but she knew it for the excuse it was. She wasn't going to the hotel for a meal. She wanted to observe the trial. She was sure it would be nowhere near fair and balanced. When she entered the ballroom, she saw that the accused men did not even have attorneys.

 _If there had been time,_ she thought, _I_ _'_ _d have hired Jon a lawyer._ He deserved at least that much. She'd have hired Lannister one, too, because did not have the look of a man who was being held accountable for killing someone. There was no grim resignation that he was getting what he deserved, nor was he affronted to have gotten caught, nor even smug to have accomplished something he felt was worth dying for. No, he looked like a martyr, a sacrifice paying to redeem someone else's sins. They both did.

A sense of outrage flared to life in her belly, only growing as Judge Baelish sentenced first one, then the other. It was swiftly followed by anger, at the miscarriage of justice, but also the terrible waste of it all: two innocent men in the prime of their lives, about to be extinguished like candles, and for what?

"No!" exclaimed a familiar voice. The crowd gasped as one, Dany joining in their surprise as Brienne Tarth continued, "I invoke the rule of court that commutes a man's sentence if a woman marries him."

 _Such a thing was possible?_ Dany marveled. _How utterly bizarre._

But yes, apparently, it was possible. She saw the Stark siblings push their way forward, faces eager, and she realized they were aware of this development.

 _Ah,_ she thought, _Brienne will marry Jon._ She was relieved, very relieved. She did not know Brienne beyond the sole instance of their sharing a meal together, a few days earlier, but she thought her a good woman. They would deal well together, Brienne and Jon, though there was a niggling objection in her stomach that he and Brienne were not quite right for each other. Though, in such a dire circumstance, the issue of compatibility did not hold much importance. No, Jon would marry Brienne, and-

Except it seemed he _wouldn_ _'_ _t_ be marrying Brienne, because she had, against all odds and logic, chosen Jaime Lannister as her husband instead. What was she thinking? Lannister was handsome, to be certain, but to pick him over Jon Snow? The girl must be mad.

Breathless with shock, Dany heard Brienne gasping tearfully, "His children… they don't have anyone else. They don't have _anyone_. I'm sorry."

 _Ah._ That, at least made some sense, but… what about Jon?

"I understand," he was saying with resignation. "I don't blame you."

The sheriff unlocked Jaime's handcuffs, and then went to Jon. The end of the chain in his huge hand looked like he held Jon on a leash, and it made Dany unreasonably furious. This was disgusting, a travesty. Before Judge Baelish, that very moment, Brienne and Jaime were being married.

"Let's get to the tree," said a man behind her to his companion, "before all the good spots are taken."

 _Tree?_ Dany puzzled over it a second until the answer clicked into place: the hanging tree, a big gnarled oak right at the T where Main Street hit the road that followed the twisting Colorado. They were talking about getting prime seats to watch Jon _die_.

Everything within her rebelled at the very idea. This could not stand. She could not bear it.

"Excuse me, Your Honor," she called out, as soon as the newlyweds shuffled away from the table serving as a judicial bench. "I claim Jon Snow as my husband."

Another gasp silenced what was left of the crowd. All parties at the front of the room went still.

"Who said that?" demanded Judge Baelish.

"Daenerys Targaryen," she replied calmly, aware that the eyes of everyone were upon her. She was accustomed to being gawped at, though, and only tilted her chin up at a more queenly angle.

 _This is an excellent idea_ , she congratulated herself. Just yesterday she had received another letter from Great-Great-Uncle Aemon telling her she only had a few months left to find a man and get herself with child before her sovereignty was rescinded from the family's business interests, bank accounts, and estate. And here was the ideal solution, a perfect plum just fallen right into her lap! _Yes. An excellent idea._

A mere ten feet away, Jon Snow was staring at her like she'd lost her mind.

 _Should have put that dollar on him surviving,_ she thought with grim satisfaction. Jon Snow would not swing, not that day. _I_ _'_ _d have made a fortune._

Dany winnowed her way from the throng to present herself before the judge, and smiled.

.

* * *

.

Jon IV

There she was, the second time in the short span of a few days. Just the sight of her irritated Jon.

Though they were of an age, she'd never gone to school with him and Robb. Until a year ago, she'd never even come into town. The first time he'd ever seen her, he'd been exiting the mercantile, and she'd been entering it. They narrowly avoided collision by a scant inch. He'd been stricken dumb by her curvy little form and silver-gilt hair and eyes the improbable color of the bluebonnets found all around the county. She was so beautiful, it didn't seem possible that she could exist, that exquisite little face just inches from his own far-less-exquisite one. He'd stood there, gawking at her stupidly, until she had begged his pardon in an icy little voice, and asked to enter.

The rest of the world had rushed back, then, and he'd mumbled an apology while stepping aside. She'd swept by him, trailing the scent of roses and, oddly, smoke. He'd been dazzled again by the glint of her hair when a sunbeam from the window caught her. It had only been Myranda laughing at him that made him snap out of his daze and shuffle outside, chancing one last look at her, but she was calmly inspecting the tins of baking powder as if she'd never seen him, had never been only an inch from pressing her body against his, as if he didn't even exist.

But what had he expected? She was no different than any other girl in town: he might as well have been invisible, or not there at all.

He'd heard more about her as the year went on. Everyone was surprised, and confused, by her new presence in town: she came almost every day, rain or shine, either having lunch at the hotel or making a purchase at one of the shops or sometimes just to watch the daily train come in and pull out again. She began attending church every single Sunday. She had made overtures of friendship to various of the young ladies, and had lunch with Sansa on several occasions.

"She's odd," Sansa had declared. "Nice, but… very direct, sometimes startlingly so, with a sense of humor that's just… odd. I can't think of another way to put it. And she has a way of looking at the young men, like they're horses she's thinking of buying."

 _On a husband hunt, then,_ Jon had thought, _and no wonder she didn_ _'_ _t spare me a look,_ for who would marry a bastard?

Now, a year later, it seemed that _she_ would marry a bastard, because she was walking forward toward the judge in her purposeful little stride, the severe cut of her green dress unable to mask the feminine side-to-side twitch of her hips.

"Sheriff, if you would release my betrothed?" she asked Clegane sweetly.

At the judge's jerky nod, the sheriff released the chain and nudged Jon toward where his blushing bride was eyeing him more like she was evaluating some cattle than a husband.

"Why?" was all he asked.

"I need children."

Jon looked out over the assembled crowd, all of whom were watching them, eagle-eyed. "None of the others will do?"

"They won't agree to my terms."

"Which are?"

"That my husband will never assert the legal power he would have over me in any way. Texas law gives a man ownership of his wife, her money and property and their children. That will not be the case in my marriage."

"I'd have no say over anything?"

"I will discuss things with you, but the final decision will always be mine."

"So I'm basically a stud bull for you to use."

She arched a brow. "And I'm an executive pardon to save your life—"

"—for a crime I didn't commit—"

"—which I had nothing to do with." She turned her gaze to Baelish, who was unashamedly listening in. "Though I'm aware of its spurious nature and less-than-upright motivations."

Baelish narrowed his eyes at her. "You might wish to be careful what accusations you throw around, Miss Targaryen."

She laughed in his face. "So sue me for slander. And I'll throw more money at your competitor's election campaign than even you can imagine." She turned her back on him with a shrug of one well-clad shoulder, leaving him fuming.

"So if you control every aspect of my life, besides escaping the gallows, what do I get out of this marriage?" Jon asked.

"Besides _living_?"

He shrugged. "What's the point of living if I'm basically property? Didn't we fight a war not too long ago about this same issue?"

She stepped very close to him, until she could stand on tiptoes, and whispered in his ear.

"In exchange, I will make myself available to you whenever you wish, unless I am unwell, or so busy I cannot be disturbed."

She stepped back and continued, "And, of course, there will be the children. A luxurious home. More money than you know what to do with."

Jon blinked at her. The suggestion in her words mingled with the scent of her, roses and smoke, and the soft, warm press of her all against his body. Having that lovely face so near his was putting him in mind of various things, too, and he wanted to kiss her, to see if they could be compatible in that way since it seemed clear they wouldn't be in any other. He moved closer to her and bent his head so his mouth was by her ear.

"Are you saying," he whispered back, his head whirling at the implication of what she was telling him, "that you will let me… assert my marital rights… at any time of the day or night, as often as I want, if I agree to everything else?"

Her face burned, and she was clearly uncomfortable with the subject topic, but she nodded. Then she bit her lip as a thought occurred to her. "…unless you do not find me attractive? It would be a poor bargain for you, then."

"No worries about that." He bit off a harsh laugh. "What about you? Will you have to force yourself?"

As he watched in fascination, her blush spread from her face down her throat. "No," she said. Her gaze flicked down to his lips before returning to his eyes. "I do not think it will be a chore."

 _That_ _'_ _s something, at least,_ he thought bitterly, and looked to Baelish with a curt nod. Baelish glanced at the sheriff and Clegane came forward to unlock the cuffs. Jon rubbed his wrists, then held out a hand to his fiancée.

"Let's get on with it, then," he said.

She placed her hand in his, and together, they faced the judge. Baelish read the marriage lines with the same grimness as when he'd said them for Brienne and Jaime just minutes earlier. Jon had never really expected to marry, but if it were to happen, he hadn't thought it would bear any resemblance to this farce: repeating words of love and devotion to a woman he scarcely knew and didn't actually like all that much, and entering into a partnership with someone who wanted nothing of him but the children he could give her.

He was to have no say over his life anymore. She would control where they lived, what they did, everything. He supposed he should be grateful that she would at least solicit his opinion before making decisions, but it grated upon him, this inequitable match, so much so that he did not hear Baelish the first time. His new wife's pointy little elbow jolted him from his sullen reverie.

"I _said_ , you may kiss your bride," Baelish repeated with a snide little smirk that Jon longed to punch off his lips.

Jon's mood took a turn for the savage, and he turned to Daenerys with a fierce scowl that made her startle. No matter; he thrust his hand into her carefully-styled hair and pulled her into a kiss that would be remembered in Kingsland for years: no mere peck to solidify their union, it was more at home in a bedroom, or even a bordello: deep, searching, wet, and thorough. He had meant it as a way of showing the claim he was staking on her, that he was no mere puppet for his wife despite the terms of their agreement.

At least, that's how it _started_.

About halfway through, it ended up being rather… different.

She was whimpering in response, the tiny vibration of it evident against his lips, but not in distress, not if the way she was clutching at the lapels of his waistcoat was any indication. He felt himself harden, just a bit, and to his amazement, she pressed back with a little shimmy he felt sure would haunt his dreams.

Lust was beginning to clamor for more of her, and some primitive part of his brain was urging him to find a table to lay her on, or just a wall to press her against. Thankfully, the civilized part of his brain stepped in to douse him with a figurative pail of cold water.

Jon jerked his head up. She followed after him for a moment— _that was very gratifying,_ he thought with satisfaction— before opening her eyes, looking dazed. Her lips were red and wet, still parted from his kiss. She was panting. She was beautiful. She was _his_.

He was _married_ to this woman, now.

It… might not be so bad as he might have thought.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: Thank you for your kind reviews, I really appreciate them! I have officially written over 100,000 words for this story, as of earlier today. There will be at least 35 chapters, I believe, and I expect it to end up being around 150,000 words overall. Perhaps more? Not sure. Anyway, I hope you like this next chapter, please let me know what you think!**

* * *

Jaime IV

All attention turned to Jon Snow and, of all people, Daenerys Targaryen. Brienne took advantage of the reprieve and ducked out the back door of the ballroom, from where Jaime had entered a year or two— or just a half-hour— ago. He didn't seem to have any restrictions on him, anymore, so after a moment of surreality, he followed her.

He studied her as she wove through the chickens and smelly puddles and the nanny goat that, he was pleased to see, had since been milked.

 _Brienne Tarth_. No, Brienne _Lannister_ now, for the love of all seven gods.

She topped him by a full inch. They could probably share clothes. She looked strong, and he wondered what it would be like to bed someone who could wrestle him to a standstill. He felt a twitch of arousal at the thought, and wondered what that said about him. With a jog, he caught up to her, and soon his long legs were matching hers stride for stride.

"So, that was unexpected," he said brightly, smiling. She flicked him a sideways glance and her face went red again. "You going to tell me it was _just_ because of my children?"

She ignored his innuendo. They approached a wagon with unexceptional but well-tended horses hitched to it.

"They're at my ranch," she told him as she untied the ribbons from the fence post. "They're nice. I like them."

Jaime froze. "Myrcella and Tommen?"

"Do you have any other children roaming Texas I don't know about?" she asked sourly. "If so, you'd best tell me now. We'll have to add on to the house."

Jaime threw back his head and laughed, and then once he started he couldn't stop, so he laughed and laughed. All his anxiety and tension and fear had welled up, preparing him for a gruesome end, and then had nowhere to go. He released it all, at that moment, pouring it out while his skittish bride stared at him.

"No, sweetling, no others," he told her, still grinning widely. He'd never felt such relief, the reality of it hitting him for true: he would not die. He could be with his children. He was _free_.

She flinched at the endearment, shooting him a cool look before climbing up onto the buckboard. He climbed up, too. With a slap of the ribbons, they were off. Even though she skirted around town to avoid the crush of vehicles clogging Main Street, they were still the focus of every person within eyesight, and if the way Brienne was staring doggedly straight ahead, her shoulders braced as if expecting some terrible blow, she hated it.

"Why did you bring them to your ranch?" he asked eventually.

"Same reason I married you," Brienne answered simply. "Couldn't not."

 _Couldn_ _'_ _t not._ What must it be like, to have an ironclad conscience like that? To have such clarity of purpose, to know exactly what to do without question, because anything else was unthinkable? Jaime could only marvel.

"I would prefer to keep… this… as neutral as possible," she said haltingly after a few minutes of silence. "This is— we are— a business partnership, as far as I'm concerned."

"Don't you want children?" he asked, frowning at her, then frowning deeper as a worrying thought came to mind. "Don't you want _sex_?"

Brienne twitched again, and turned red. "I've lived twenty-six years without it so far, I can last another twenty-six," she grumbled, making him laugh again.

"Only someone who's never done it can think it's so easy to live without." He put his elbows behind him on the wagon seat's back, intentionally crowding her, and stretched his legs out to put his feet up on the footboard with booted ankles crossed. He felt giddy with relief, wanting to celebrate somehow. Teasing her sounded like a grand way to do it since, apparently, they wouldn't be enjoying consummation any time soon. "Unfortunately for me, and my sore wrist, I'm very aware of what I'm missing."

"Sore wrist?" She looked puzzled, and he had the dawning realization that she had no idea what he was talking about. _How could it even be possible_ _…_ _?_

"Have you really never…?" he asked, incredulous.

At her horrified expression, and the way her face flamed purple, he understood that she simply hadn't understood the reference to his wrist, probably because she was no expert in how males got the job done. If Jaime's fevered imaginings were correct, women employed rather a different technique, though he'd not yet had the excellent luck to observe any of them doing it. Cersei was rather lazy in bed and had always preferred to lay back and have him do all the heavy lifting. She'd have considered the act beneath her in the same way as cooking and cleaning: there were people to do that for her.

He wondered how Brienne got the job done. He could picture it: Brienne on a maiden's narrow bed… would she be above or below her covers? Below, he decided; she was far too inhibited to fling off her blankets and have at it without concealing herself even from the empty room. Then what? Jaime's eyes lowered to half-mast as he contemplated it. She'd be wearing a man's shirt to sleep in; no fussy nightgowns for this girl.

 _His_ shirt, he decided next, and she'd like the scent of him on it, sniffing every so often to stay inspired. Perhaps she would unbutton his shirt, exposing her chest— he glanced to the side to see what she had, and realized right away that she wasn't wearing a corset. Might not even be wearing an undershirt. He might be able to bare her breasts to the sun and fresh air and his mouth just by opening a few buttons. He wondered what color her nipples were— a fragile pink? a dusky rose? ah, the possibilities were enchanting— and if they'd need to be touched to harden or if he could manage it just by talking filthy to her.

He shifted on the buckboard and the motion drew her attention. To his groin. Where he was rather obviously tenting out the fabric of his trousers. He pretended not to notice either the state of his trousers or her notice of said state, gazing happily out at the river as they drove along it. When he looked back at Brienne, she was staring at the road ahead, once more, but… his glance fell to her chest, and to his immense pleasure, he saw that two stiff little points thrust prominently against the threadbare fabric of her old shirt.

She was, it appeared, so sensitive that he'd not even have to say anything dirty to get a reaction from her. He filed away that delightful little fact and continued with his happy fantasy. So… she'd unbuttoned the shirt she was wearing, exposing small breasts with saucy nipples clearly in need of some worshipping… maybe she'd pinch them, and gasp… yes, that's what she'd do. Then she'd slide one hand down her belly and into the imminently plain and practical pantalettes she doubtless wore, palm skimming over the patch of hair…

What color would it be? Jaime studied her for a moment, peripherally noticing how she blushed again at his scrutiny, and decided it would be dark blonde, almost as golden as what he had on his head.

…Brienne would cup herself with that big, capable hand of hers, feeling the plumpness of her mound in the cup of her palm, and then press inward with her middle finger, parting the soft folds, delving into the searing heat and drenched wetness within. Then— he glanced at her again, taking visual measure of her legs— she would part those endless limbs and slide a finger in…

Jaime groaned and decided he needed to stop torturing himself.

"You should be ashamed," she whispered, barely audible over the clopping of the horses' hooves. She kept trying to keep her eyes on the road, but every few seconds they would flick over at him, at the full erection pushing at his fly.

"Why?"

"To… be that way… in front of another person." Her voice sounded strangled.

"You're my wife."

"We hardly know each other."

"You're my _wife_ ," he repeated. "It's a natural reaction to thinking about bedding you."

The gasp Brienne sucked in sounded like she was one breath away from drowning. "Stop," she whispered.

"You can think of bedding me, too, if you like," he said generously. "In the interest of fairness."

"Stop," she repeated, her voice stronger this time. Angrier. "You're horrible."

"Nah," said Jaime. "I'm no worse than any other man. You're just so much better than the rest of us that we seem terrible in comparison."

She looked startled. "What do you mean by that?" she asked cautiously. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Brienne," he said, very serious, "you're probably the best person I've ever met. You've given me a second chance I didn't even know I wanted. Forget about me trying to seduce you— though I'm not going to stop, so get used to it— I think we could make a real marriage out of this."

He flashed her a winning smile.

"You know ranching, I know how to make a business succeed. You're very serious, and I am… not. You need me to make you laugh, and I need you to make me _stop_ laughing, at least once in a while. I think we'll do well together."

She didn't move, didn't speak, just sat there like the world's most lifelike granite sculpture. Color was creeping over her face again, disappearing down into the neck of her shirt. Her eyes were unguarded, clear, free of shadows, for a moment, and Jaime felt like he was about to trip and tumble right into them. But then whatever openness she'd suffered snapped shut, and her natural inclination to protect herself was reasserted.

"You're just feeling a bit raw from the stress of recent days," she said slowly. "Grateful. I know how it is." She nodded earnestly at him. "I won't hold you to anything you say."

"But I _want_ you to," he said, frustration mounting at her stubbornness. "Hold me to _everything_ , Brienne. I won't go back on it, or change my mind."

Her lip curled up in sudden violence. "You can. You will. There's no way that you— no. There's no way. We, you and I… we're a laughing-stock. We're a joke, and everyone is in on it. I won't permit myself to care for you and end up following you around like a, a lovesick puppy, just because you've tossed me a few scraps."

"What if _**I**_ come to care for _you_?" Jaime shot back at her. "Will you make me follow _you_ around, lovesick and pathetic?"

"You won't." She laughed, short and brutal and harsh. "How could you? I am ugly."

"Only on the outside."

If he thought that would calm her, reassure her, he was wrong: it enraged her, instead, and for a moment he thought she'd actually strike him.

"Don't you dare minimize it," she whispered, so furious she was breathless. "Don't you _dare_ speak platitudes to me, as if inner beauty actually matters. You've never had to get by on your _inner beauty_ , but I have, and I can tell you that it isn't worth a good goddamn. My _inner beauty_ never stopped people from staring at me, and gossiping about me, and pitying me.

"Didn't you hear the laughter, today? They didn't even have the decency to whisper. 'That's the only way _she_ _'_ _ll_ get a husband', they said. 'Thought she'd have to get herself a blind man', they said. 'At least he'll give her children a fighting chance to be less ugly', they said. These people have known me for fifteen years, Jaime, so if my _inner beauty_ hasn't won them over yet, it is not going to happen. So don't you try to tell me how valuable it is. It's not worth shit."

He could only stare at her, speechless. He was appalled on her behalf for a few seconds, and then he was _angry_.

"I've been misjudged— literally— pretty fucking badly the past week," he shot back. "And I'll be damned if it happens again. What those people said was wrong, but I was not one of them. Strangers or not, we're married, and I won't have my wife thinking the worst of me every moment of the day."

He felt like a deflating bladder, rage draining away suddenly. "I've done plenty of wrong in my life, Brienne. But if you want to hate me, hate me for what I _have_ done, not for what I haven't." He rubbed his hands over his face. "If we're stuck with each other, doesn't it make sense to try to get along? Maybe we'll never come to love each other. But there's no reason we have to hate each other. Is there?"

"No," she said, very quietly, after a moment. "There isn't."

"I want to be a family, Brienne," he continued. "A real one. We both know how Lannisters are. This week, I've seen how Starks are. The loyalty they feel for each other, not because of some stupid obligation to a family name, but because they love each other… they _trust_ each other. That's… amazing to me, that they can place their lives in each other's hands and know they will be safe. I've never had that."

It seemed disturbing enough to shake Brienne from her frozen state. "You've… you've never trusted anyone?" she said slowly, cautiously. "Ever?"

"I trust my brother somewhat," he said, and then decided to take a chance. "And I trust you."

She reared back as if he'd slapped her. "Me? How can you _possibly_ —"

"You've been kinder to me in the past few days than Cersei has been in our entire lives," he told her, expecting it to hurt like hell, but the truth of it was more the dull ache of a long-healed break than a new fracture. "You've taken immense responsibility upon yourself, sacrificed yourself, for the sake of people you hardly know, because it was the right thing to do. Even knowing it would cost you any dreams you might have had to marry for love, and money you don't have and can't afford to spend."

He paused. "By the way, you don't have to worry about that any more. You probably don't care and I know you didn't marry me because of it, but… I'm rich. What's mine is yours and yours is mine, et cetera." He forced a grin. "We can add as many bedrooms onto the house as we need. How many kids do you want? I'd like… four. Or five. Six? No more than seven. Eight, tops."

The horror on her face melted into grudging amusement as he blathered on.

Then she surprised him by saying, "Two. _If_ I don't kill you in your sleep before they're—" She cut herself off suddenly, realizing too late what train of thought she was heading toward, and concentrated on steering the team up the drive. They were soon joined by two dogs, both of which seemed determined to herd the wagon toward the barn.

"Before they're conceived?" he finished, grinning. He looked around at the ranch that would be his new home. It was neatly kept, if modest in size. "I was having the most amazing daydream, earlier. Do you want to know what it was about?"

"No. _Gods_ , no."

"Too bad. So, you were laying in bed, and—"

"I really _might_ kill you before the children are conceived."

"You can try."

"I'm an excellent wrestler." She cast a scornful eye over him as she pulled the wagon to a halt outside the barn. The dogs gamboled around the wagon in transports of joy. "No man has been strong enough to beat me yet."

" _I_ _'_ _m_ strong enough." He cast an eye over her, too, and let his appreciation show on his face and in his eyes. "Question is, are _you_ strong enough to beat _me_?" He leaned closer and breathed into her ear, "Will you even want to?"

"I have a feeling I will want to beat you on a daily, if not hourly, basis," she said dryly, delighting him, and hopped down to the yard with ease. He followed, rounding the back of the wagon to her.

"We are going to be wonderful together, Brienne," he informed her, and surprised her with a kiss to the cheek before she could avoid him. "This is going to be the best marriage Kingsland has ever seen."

"I have married a crazy person," she muttered, and busied herself with unhitching the team. "Stand," she told the dogs, and they went from frisky pups to serious professionals in a heartbeat, going stock-still, ears quivering and alert for her next command.

"I'll do it, Miss Brienne," said a familiar voice, and Jaime turned to find one of Bobby's ranch hands— Pat?— approach from the direction of the corral.

"Will you? Thanks, Pod," she said, offering a smile as she handed the ribbons over to him. "Pod, this is…"

She trailed off, clearly at a loss for how to introduce him. Jaime waited, amused.

"Jaime Lannister," Pod replied matter-of-factly. "Hey, Mr. Lannister. The judge actually let you go?"

"Hello, Pod," he said. "Not exactly."

"Well, you should go on in and see the kids," said Pod. "They expected you to hang. Miss Myrcella broke two plates because her hands were shaking. And Master Tommen threw up again."

He turned to amble back to the corral, calling "That'll do," to the dogs, who raced over to flank him as he went.

Brienne tsked and turned immediately toward the house, her long strides eating up the ground. Jaime thought that was interesting; clearly Brienne had begun to care about his daughter and son already, which pleased him very much.

As she entered, she said, "I'm back!" and then stopped in her tracks. "Oh, don't cry, Myrcella, Tommen…"

Directly behind her in the doorway, Jaime couldn't see what was happening.

"I'm sorry," Myrcella said softly. "We tried to stay strong, but… we never got to say goodbye to him."

"It didn't hurt, did it?" asked Tommen. "I don't like to think of it hurting him."

A lump came to Jaime's throat in an instant, and tears to his eyes.

"Hey," Brienne said, her voice soft and sweet in a way he hadn't heard yet, but liked very much. "He's fine. Look."

She turned sideways in the door, revealing him right behind her. He saw Myrcella standing with her hands folded tightly before her, her face eerily similar to Cersei's when she was fighting to control her temper. In Myrcella, though, it was her attempt to keep from sobbing. And Tommen looked like _him_ , like Jaime pretending to be fine when he was anything but. Jaime likely had that expression on his own face at that very moment, in fact.

He approached them with caution, but they went into his arms as if they'd had long practice, though it was the first time he'd ever held them. Tommen was almost as tall as his own sister, and likely would match Jaime himself when he was grown, but for now he was still plump and childish and Jaime was so damned glad to be able to know him while he was yet a boy. Myrcella was almost a woman, though, and he felt a pang that he'd never get to know her as the tiny girl she'd been, only ever permitted to see her from afar, as remote Uncle Jaime.

"What happened?" Myrcella asked once she'd calmed, stepping back and brushing tears off her face with her fingers.

"We thought you— that they—" said Tommen.

"The kindest, most generous woman in the world saved me," he told them, and damned if they didn't turn and look right at Brienne, who promptly turned the color of an eggplant. "See?" he said to her. "Told you you're the best person I know. They know it, too. Everyone knows it. Just have to convince _you_ of it."

Brienne shot him a hostile glance and stomped through the room to exit a door on the other side. Jaime took the opportunity to look around, and found himself in a large, shabby but comfortable-looking parlor that stretched across the front of the house from side to side. There were two doors on the back wall; through one, he could see a table and cook stove, and through the other was a hallway, likely where the bedrooms were. The entire place was modest but homey. He liked it immediately.

"How did Miss Brienne save you?" Myrcella asked, drawing his attention.

"She married me," Jaime replied, figuring honest was the best policy, and even if he lied now, someone in town would tell them the truth eventually. Their eyes widened almost comically.

"Should we call her Mother now?" asked Tommen. "Except we already have a mother." He paused, then added, sadly, "Somewhere."

The lump in Jaime's throat, which had never fully gone away, returned with a vengeance.

"Ah… so you know that I… uh."

He had brazened his way through hundreds of awkward situations in his life. Not one of them had ever prepared him for this. But they were kind children, somehow, in spite of their decidedly _un_ kind parentage, and took pity on him, putting him out of his misery.

"Yes," said Myrcella. "We know you are our father, not Father." She frowned. "That sounds odd."

He couldn't help but smile. "I knew what you meant. Yes, I am. I hope… I understand if you're uncomfortable about it. And I don't expect you to call me 'Father'. I can just stay your uncle, if you want. I only… want to be in your lives. I've wanted to, all these years. I missed you as babies, and little children, and I've always been so sorry about that."

"What if we _want_ you to be our father, not our uncle?" Tommen's face was so earnest that Jaime's heart clenched in his chest.

"I'll be whatever you want," he said hoarsely. "Whatever makes you happy."

"Well, we can't call you Pa, because that's what Miss Brienne calls her father. He told us to call him Papa, and that was before he even knew he was going to _be_ our grandpa. I like it much better than Grandfatherrrrrrrr." Tommen drew out the last letter, and Jaime knew it was a dig at Tywin, who refused to respond to anything but the most dignified title.

"What should we call Miss Brienne?" Myrcella sounded worried. "I don't want her to think we don't like her, or don't want her to be our stepmother."

"You can just call me Brienne, if you like," said the woman herself, re-entering the room. She'd obviously been eavesdropping just outside the door. "Or…" She bit her lip, looking self-conscious. "Galladon— my brother— and I called our mother 'Mama' until we were older, and then she was Ma. You… I mean, I'm not old enough to be your mother, and I don't want you think I could take her place, you should just call me whatever you like—"

She'd likely keep rambling indefinitely. Jaime had to put a stop to it, for her sake, if no one else's.

"How about you call her 'Brienne' as long as it feels right, and if you ever want to call her something else, you can use 'Mama'?" The other three all nodded vigorously, happy someone else had taken charge. "As for me… you can keep calling me 'uncle', or… 'Father' was Bobby, and you knew him as your father all these years. I don't want to take that from you."

"He drank too much but we loved him," Myrcella whispered.

"I'm glad." He smiled at her. Bobby had been a sot, and hadn't paid much attention to them, but he'd been kind and affectionate when he had. "So 'Father' is out, and 'Papa' belongs to Mr. Tarth, so… you could… call me… 'Dad'?"

He wanted them to, so much his hands were shaking. He glanced at Brienne and saw her watching him, her extraordinary eyes compassionate. Myrcella nodded, then Tommen.

"I like that," he said.

"Me, too," said Myrcella. "It suits you."

Jaime hugged them both again, until they protested and squirmed to be away.

"Why don't you go bother Pod for a while?" Brienne suggested. "Your… dad and I have to talk about things."

They bounded agreeably from the house, leaving her alone with Jaime. His knees felt weak, suddenly, and he dropped into onto the battered old settee, tilting his head back wearily and closing his eyes.

"That was the hardest, strangest thing I have ever done," he said. When she didn't reply, he opened his eyes to find her still standing across the room, watching him.

"You handled it well," she told him eventually. "I'm not ready to be 'Mama' just yet, though. I'm only twelve years older than Myrcella."

"Whenever it feels right is fine," he replied, yawning, and shut his eyes again. "Come sit by me."

He cracked an eye to watch her as she sidled over, looking around warily before moving closer. Gingerly, she lowered herself beside him and perched on the edge of the seat, hands on knees, ready to spring away at the first sign of… something. Jaime threw his arm around her while sliding sideways until they were pressed up against each other very companionably. Brienne made a sound like a panicked bird and tried to flee, but he clamped his other hand on her thigh and between both arms managed to restrain her.

"Settle," he said, his voice mild. "I'm not going to accost you. I just want to…" Confident she had calmed enough to be released, he took his hand off her thigh— her strong, muscular thigh— and raked it through his hair in agitation. "I've had a rough week, and I just want to—"

He huffed and looked away, embarrassed.

"You want to… be comforted?" Brienne ventured. Mutely, feeling ridiculous, he nodded, still staring out the window. "And you won't… do anything? Try to touch me in ways you know damned well I don't want?"

"…yet?" He looked at her, now, his bashfulness easing somewhat. Sitting by each other that way, their faces were close, and he could see the constellations of her freckles, the break in her nose— rather like his own— the plushness of her lips, and those eyes, those amazing eyes. He held his breath, waiting for her response. It felt to him like how she answered might direct how their entire marriage proceeded from that point.

She turned a mottled red as he watched. "Yet," she agreed, so quietly he almost couldn't hear her, but it made hope take wing inside him. Gods, he didn't want this next chapter of his life to be as miserable as the first, as empty, as sick with longing for affection.

"Thank you," he said, lifting her hand to his lips and placing a kiss on her rough-skinned fingers. "Can we get to the comforting, now?"

She huffed, but it was amused. More of a laugh, really, or so Jaime told himself. Then she surprised the hell out of him, because he had only expected her to let him sit next to her, his arm around her shoulders. Maybe play with her hand a bit. But she slid back a little, then held out her arms. To go into them, he'd have to lean over, half-reclining on her.

Jaime was not going to argue. This gift horse could miss every tooth in its mouth; he wasn't looking in there. Quickly, eagerly, he shifted until his head was on Brienne's shoulder, sliding his arms around her waist, enjoying the solidity of her in his embrace. She put hers around him, as well, and then, to his utter shock, she rested her cheek on the crown of his head.

"I would hold my brother Galladon like this all night, so he could sleep," she said. "He had a lung fever and couldn't rest unless he sat up, but he kept falling over as soon as he was asleep, so we'd do this. Ma had died a year earlier, by then, and Pa was busy with the ranch while I cared for Gal, so it fell to me. I didn't mind. Glad to have that time with him, before he died."

Idly, automatically, her hand came up to stroke his hair. His heart went out to her, and what she must have gone through, grieving her mother's death and watching her brother die by inches, all while sleep-deprived. Her strength was humbling. He found his admiration for her increasing almost exponentially, and it had already been considerable.

It was, indeed, a comfortable and restful pose. And Jaime had slept poorly the last week, in that shitty cot in the jail. He wondered, idly, what had become of the things he'd left in his cell, before deciding it was his kind donation to the next poor bastard who had to stay in it.

" 'M gonna need clothes," he said against her neck as slumber pulled and tugged at him with insistence.

"Yes, I know," she said. "You smell terrible."

"Cruel wench."

"Don't call me that."

" 'Mmkay," Jaime replied, and fell asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: Thanks for your kind reviews :)**

* * *

Dany III

No sooner had Dany and Jon finished signing the marriage certificate than they were surrounded by Starks. Jon's youngest sister shouldered Dany out of the way to fling herself at him, and his brother soon followed, wringing Jon's hand in both of his own. Sansa behaved with more decorum, however, waiting until the other two had calmed before kissing her brother's cheek and smiling.

"I felt like I'd faint, when Brienne said Mr. Lannister's name, instead of yours," Sansa told them, still wide-eyed from the shock of it.

"Me, too," said Robb with a grin. "Arya would have had to catch me."

"Pfft," said Arya. "I'd have been too busy killing Brienne. It's only because Miss Daenerys stepped up that I haven't." She squinted while craning her neck to look over the crowd for some glimpse of that woman and Jaime Lannister, her expression boding ill for Brienne when next they met. "Yet."

Sansa offered a wobbly smile to Dany. "Arya is the bloodthirsty one among us," she said. "She doesn't forgive easily."

"Neither do I," said Dany, smiling at Arya with approval, which seemed to startle all four Starks, Arya included. "Though Miss Brienne seems to have a solid reason for her choice of Mr. Lannister."

"I just wish she had mentioned it to us before hand," said Sansa, looking sad. "I hate to think she was afraid to say anything to us, in case we were angry." She glanced at her siblings. "Surely she knows we wouldn't be upset with her…?"

Robb and Arya averted their eyes, not answering. Sansa blinked appealingly at Jon.

"Jon, I know you agree with me," she said. "I heard you, you told her you understood."

"Yes, I understood." He gave her a fond, exasperated little smile. "But if things hadn't worked out as they have, I'm certain I'd feel less forgiving." He glanced at Dany and raked a hand through his dark curls. She liked how they tumbled around his face. Though she also liked how it looked when he tied them back. She suspected she'd find him appealing if he were as bald as an egg. "As it is… all's well that ends well. No reason to hold a grudge. I'm alive, Lannister's children still have a father…"

Jon gave Arya's cheek a poke. "So just let it go, you hear? No grudges."

She shot him a cranky look, but nodded. "Fine," she agreed, a touch sullenly.

Sansa nudged Robb. He rolled his eyes, but said, "No grudges." Then he grinned at Dany, and said, "Welcome to our family. You'll have noticed that we're all crazy."

"So is my family," she replied, though she suspected their 'crazy' had nothing on Targaryen 'crazy'. "I'm quite used to it."

"It is unexpected to have you for our goodsister, instead of Brienne, but no less welcome," added Sansa.

"Will you still live with us, as you'd planned to do with Brienne?" Arya asked Jon, clearly hopeful of an affirmative answer.

He glanced at Dany; she gave him a tiny shake of the head in the negative. She could not leave Viserys by himself. No telling what he'd get up to, without her there to ensure he was stable. And how was Jon supposed to give her a baby if he were living on the Northpoint when she was on the Triple D?

"No," he replied to his sister, "but I'll be there every day. Just because I'm married and living elsewhere doesn't mean I won't still work on the ranch together with the rest of you."

Jon shot Dany a rebellious look, then, daring her to disagree with him. She gave him a bland smile.

"Of course you must fulfill your obligations to your family," she agreed. "I would expect nothing less."

"Will you join us for supper tonight?" asked Sansa. "You should meet our other two brothers, Bran and Rickon."

Dany noted she did not include her mother— Jon's stepmother— in the list of people who would like to make her acquaintance. Dany was not sure what she had expected, but this… pleasant overture, this warm inclusion, was not it. It had never occurred to her that marriage meant she was gaining a family as well as a husband. A very _nice_ family, it would appear. Again she mourned Ned's loss, for she thought he would have been a wonderful goodfather.

"Perhaps not tonight," Dany replied. "It sounds lovely, but Jon and I must talk, first, about what we will do."

"I'll come back to get my things, but I won't stay long," he added, and smiled. "I'll be there early in the morning for chores, don't worry."

Arya looked inclined to argue, but only grimaced before giving Jon another rib-cracking hug.

"I'm so glad you're safe," she whispered, eyes squeezed tight, her lashes damp. Then she shocked Dany by embracing her, as well, though fortunately with less fervor. "Thank you for saving him."

Dany felt uncomfortable with being thanked for something any decent person should have done. "I don't think I could have lived with myself if I hadn't," she said. "So you see, it was really for myself, so I didn't get hounded the rest of my life by my conscience."

They all gave a polite laugh, as if she had been joking. She sighed, resigned to being misunderstood yet again.

"I will see you in a few hours," Jon told them, nodding toward the doors, finally able to be approached as the crowd thinned. Sansa kissed his cheek, then Dany's, and Robb shook their hands, and then the Starks were gone.

Once it was just he and Dany, he stared at her for a long moment, and she felt struck by the intensity of his gaze. It made her feel very aware of herself, and of him, and seemed to make everyone else feel far away. A strange sensation. She was not ignorant of what went on between men and women; there were far too many of Great-Great-Aunt Rhae's naughty books in the Targaryen library, books with salacious descriptions and explicit artwork, for that. She had worked her way through them as she had any other matter she had decided to study: doggedly, with acute attention to detail, and a conviction that the knowledge would one day benefit her.

Thus she was not surprised, exactly, at how the wedding kiss had felt, or the reactions it stirred in her. All the adjectives that had been used in Great-Great-Aunt Rhae's books— slick, exciting, hot, arousing, fierce, ticklish, intimate, frustrating— were dead-on accurate in describing it. But as they left the hotel, the eyes of the town fixed upon them, Dany was trembling as the vestiges of the experience lingered, seeming to coalesce on the small of her back, where her new husband had placed his hand as they walked out together. Even through her basque and corset, it felt like a brand laying directly on her skin.

She had not expected _that_.

She could not find any regret in her for her impulsive choice to marry him. It was the right thing to do, for several reasons: in recognition of Ned Stark's kindness, because justice was not being served, and because she needed a husband to father her children. And the passion inherent in that kiss boded well, also. For years, she'd been burning with curiosity to understand, to know personally, the delights spoken of in Great-Great-Aunt Rhae's books. She was _thrilled_ with that kiss, because it meant that those delights might actually be within her grasp. If she had to marry, let it be to a man who would bring more to their union than just his fertility, something for _her_ as well as for her family and its legacy.

Dany found Jon pleasing to look at, and always had, but she was not one to be overly impressed by looks. He had a reputation for being quiet, and she had overheard him spoken of as dull and stodgy. In the two interactions she had had with him so far, however, he had seemed anything but dull or boring; he struck her as a volcano, usually peaceful and quiescent, but when roused… explosive and fiery, scorching everything in its path.

Or at least that was how it felt to her— that kiss! Her head was still reeling from it. She had felt the prod of him against her belly, and an answering prod of desire for him tightening her insides. The memory of it, the knowledge that he wanted her, made that twist happen again, and she could not suppress a little gasp.

Jon, walking beside her in grim silence, stopped. Turned to look at her. She stopped, too, and looked back.

"Only just realize what a bum deal you got?" he asked, derisive.

"No," she said, surprised. "I was thinking how well this has turned out for me. I knew I had to marry someone, and am glad it ended up being you. I liked your father, you know. I just hope you feel, or at least come to feel, that it has turned out well for you, too."

He said nothing, just frowned, looking like he was concentrating very hard on understanding what she was saying. She decided to plunge ahead, feeling she had nothing to lose by being honest.

"Also, I have always hoped I would be able to desire my husband, instead of just having to endure the marital act with him." She thought, again, of the velvet brush of his tongue against her own. "That was a _very_ good kiss."

He blinked. Stared. Opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. Swallowed. _Blushed_ a little, adorably.

"Yes," he said at last, putting his hand through his hair and looking everywhere but at her. "It was."

"Do you want to consummate our marriage today?" Dany asked him, hoping she did not sound too eager, afraid she was failing miserably. "Tonight, I mean. _Or_ today, if you don't want to wait— I know I said 'whenever you wish', so—"

"You really meant that?" His voice was a rasp, and his eyes glittered like obsidian when he fixed them on her. Dany's breath went funny in her chest.

"Of course I did," she replied, sounding a bit raspy, herself. "I always mean everything I say."

"So if we go to your ranch—"

"It's more of an estate, really, and it's yours, now, too—"

"—and I want you right away, immediately, you'll let me have you?"

Heat streaked through her, starting in a flush at her throat and arrowing straight down between her legs.

"Yes," she replied hoarsely. "Have me."

He inhaled deeply. His hands, at his sides, flexed open and closed. He looked like was considering _having her_ right there in the street, and in that moment, Dany was not sure she'd object.

"What's this?" asked Oberyn Martell in Spanish, approaching them from across the street. "Arguing already?"

His keen gaze was assessing as it roamed over them. He knew they were not _arguing_.

"No," Dany replied, and continued in the same tongue, "just coming to an understanding about what we expect of each other, so there are no surprises later on." The sinuousness of the language made her breathless words sound even more suggestive.

Awareness flared in Oberyn's dark eyes. He gave her a slow, leisurely evaluation from the tips of her boots to the crown of her head and down again, coming to a rest at her mouth, and she rather felt as if a hot wind had just raked over her body.

"But sometimes it is good to be surprised, don't you agree?" he asked her. "It is so sad when a marriage sinks into boredom."

"I will make it the focal point of my existence to keep my husband from becoming bored with me," she replied pertly. "Perhaps I will learn a variety of tap-dance routines to keep his interest."

It made him laugh. Jon, too, smiled, though he looked as if it were against his will.

"I doubt there will be need for tap-dancing," Oberyn allowed. "Just your words will keep him alert and interested, I believe. But if not…" He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "They would keep _me_ alert and interested, señorita—"

"Señora," Jon snapped in correction, his good humor gone in an instant at the insinuation plain in the other man's tone.

"—so if you find yourself neglected by an inattentive husband—"

"She won't."

"—you know where to find me."

"Where I would find myself is carrying the fifth of your children, Señor Martell, if I were to take you up on your offer." Dany gently pulled back on her hand, the soft brush of his moustache ticklish. She found herself irritated by his words; he was only teasing, but it was in poor taste. "Sadly— for you— the prospect is not alluring enough to tempt me to break my vow of fidelity."

Oberyn smiled again, and this time it was much friendlier, and far less lascivious. "I am glad you intend to be a faithful wife to our Jon. He deserves nothing but the best."

He recaptured her hand, and his kiss on it, this time, was nothing but respectful. She realized he'd been testing her. With a tug of his hat-brim to Jon, who was still glowering at him, Oberyn sauntered off, still chuckling.

 _What a horrible man_ , Dany thought, piqued.

"He is a horrible man," she announced to her husband, and resumed her walk toward her buggy.

Jon exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders as he followed after her. "No, he's… just trying to look out for me. Always has. He feels a kinship with me, because I'm half-Mexican."

"Are you?" she asked, inspecting him. "Yes, I can see the look of it in you, now that I pay attention."

He looked startled. "You didn't know?"

"No, I just thought you knew how to speak Spanish," she said absently. Her matched pair of cremellos stood patiently, and she petted their noses while untying them. " _ **I**_ speak it, and my family is pure British Isles back to before the Norman invasion. Some of the family is still upset that the Normans besmirched our purity, in fact."

"Now that you know, do you care?" he asked.

There was a note to his voice that sounded unsure. She studied him a moment.

"Does it have anything to do with how good a husband you'll be?"

"No."

"Then I don't care." Dany grasped the buggy's handle, intending to hoist herself up, but he took her arm and turned her back to him. "Jon—?"

His mouth came down on hers with the same force as before, shocking her for a moment before she could respond. Her hands were not caught between them, this time, and she slid them up and around his shoulders. This time she could press herself all along him. This time she was not so shocked she just stood there, but could enjoy it, and enjoy it she did, until something dug into her back. She realized Jon had pressed her up against the buggy, and the handle was about to skewer one of her kidneys.

"We're making a spectacle of ourselves," she said when he released her, because there were at least a half-dozen people watching, whispering back and forth. "If you're going to kiss me like that, at least let's get out of town, first."

He lifted her into the buggy and climbed up next to her. As soon as he was in the seat, she gave her team a light slap of the ribbons and directed them to the nearest road out of town. Dany gave the team their heads, not particularly caring where they went, and they rode in silence for several minutes.

"When I went into the courtroom, I expected to be marrying Brienne," Jon said at last. "Our arrangement was that I would keep living at the Northpoint, and help her whenever she needed me at the E-Star. We'd take our time, get used to thinking about each other as husband and wife. Decide about children in a few years. No pressure, no rushing." He looked sideways at her. "I take it there's a bit of a hurry on what you need me for?"

She felt her face heat. "Yes. I've been told by the rest of my family that I must marry and have children as soon as possible, so they can take over for me when I am no longer able to manage the family's business matters."

He frowned. "Business matters?"

She nodded. "I manage the ranch, the stock investments, the real estate portfolio, and various enterprises around the continent."

His eyebrows went up. "Continent?"

She nodded again. "I have controlling interest in various mines up and down the West Coast, from Alaska to San Francisco, and was able to buy several plantations around the Caribbean recently— sugar and tobacco. One even has a rum distillery attached. And I plan on building a cigar factory in the next year or two. I anticipate excellent profits." She paused, sure she was forgetting something. "Oh, and the fleet."

"Fleet?" he repeated, his voice faint.

"I felt it was impractical and wasteful, paying other companies to ship our products around the world, so I bought out a company with several dozen vessels, and now we do it all ourselves."

"And you run all of this alone?"

"Oh, of course not! I have several very competent vice-presidents who assist me. Oh, and I run the ranch, now, though I do have a foreman to assist. After that last disaster, I learned not to rely on someone else without understanding how they do their job. If not for your father, I would have been in dire straits."

"My father?" Jon said, startled.

"He and I agreed never to speak of it." But she was married to Ned's son, now. He should know, and so she told him all about how she and his father had helped each other in their times of need. When she was done, he sat back in the buggy seat and exhaled.

"Robb and I wondered where Father got the money for all those cattle," he said. "And that was you, the whole time."

"It was the least I could do." And she meant it; after her parents had died, there had been no one who could be bothered to teach her to run Targaryen Industries, and of course Viserys was no help at all. She'd been all of fifteen years old, and had to figure it out for herself, knowing how many people were depending on her. One very kind man had learned she was struggling, and offered assistance, for no other reason than because he felt it was the right thing to do.

He was silent another few minutes before saying, "You run this… business empire… so a few dozen slackers in New York—"

"Boston."

"—can live the good life, and they expect your children to inherit this burden from you? And you're agreeing to it?"

The skepticism in Jon's voice made her bristle, but she was careful to control the tone of her voice when she answered.

"Everything is shared equally among all of us, including the estate where I live, the funds I use to support myself and my brother. If I don't comply with their demands, they will withdraw their contributions and leave only whatever shares my brother and I own. And that's not enough to keep us. I might be able to get by, but Viserys…"

She trailed off for a moment, trying to think how to phrase it.

"You should know this from the beginning." She sighed. "He is… troubled. Harmless— mostly— but obsessed with the past. He sometimes fancies that he is one of the historical figures he is studying at the moment. I have put him in his own wing of the estate."

His expression was amazed.

"Are you actually telling me that you have your brother locked away in a remote part of the house?"

"Not… locked _away_ , per se," Dany hedged. "Locked, yes, but he has a key to all the doors, and can get out, if he wishes. He just…" She sighed. "Doesn't usually wish. I think it makes him feel safe if he pretends he's a prisoner and cannot leave. And it's probably more comfortable for everyone else, if he doesn't leave, too."

She avoided his gaze, knowing he was staring at her, but when he didn't speak, she peeped up at him.

Jon raked his hand through his hair. "I feel like Jane Eyre."

"Does that make me Mr. Rochester?" she asked in reply, secretly delighted that he could make such a literary reference. Wasn't he supposed to be a bastard? She thought they received paltry educations, if any at all. It appeared there was more to her new husband than she had thought. "No," she said, feigning deep thought, a finger on her chin, "my eyebrows aren't bushy enough. They haven't enough thicketry."

He blinked at her and a hint of amusement curled his lips in a way Dany found very distracting.

"Is that even a word? I don't think that's a word."

"It is now," she told him airily. "How is it you know of Jane Eyre? Have you read it?"

"Sansa," he replied. "She loves it. Reads it to us at night, quotes it, talks about how _romantic_ Mr. Rochester is. How is it romantic, to seduce a governess while your mad wife is imprisoned in the attic?" He looked to her as if seriously asking for her input. She hoped he wasn't looking to argue with her, because she shared his opinion: Mr. Rochester was in no way romantic to her. "Mad or not, she's still his wife. He has no business seducing a governess or anyone else."

"Does this mean I can rely upon _your_ fidelity, Jon Snow?" she asked, her tone light, but she really, really wanted to know.

"Of course you can!" he said, his face outraged at the very idea. "I know we haven't married for love, but I promised. That means something to me, Dany."

His dark eyes were glowing, passionate. She believed him.

 _This man,_ she thought, _is dangerous to me. This man could break my heart._

"To me as well," she said, very quietly. "I am glad we've nothing to worry about, in that regard." Then, more amused, " 'Dany'?"

He looked a little bashful. "Ah. Sorry. I won't use it, if you don't like. It's just that 'Daenerys' is such a mouthful… we Starks prefer short names."

"Jon," Dany said thoughtfully. "Robb. Bran." Pause. "Ned."

He sobered. "Ned," he repeated, and his shoulders slumped a little. "I can't believe it was only a week ago."

As she had at the funeral, she placed her hand over his. "Shall we name our first son after him?"

He had been looking down at their hands on his knee; at her words, he looked up at her. "You wouldn't mind?"

"I'd be honored."

He gazed at her, eyes studying her features. She wondered what he saw, what he thought of her. If she pleased him. She hoped so. He certainly pleased her, so far.

"You know I still have responsibilities at the Northpoint," he said eventually. "I don't know what you have in mind for me at your place, but—"

"I meant exactly what I said," she told him. "You can do whatever you like. If you want to be involved in the ranch, I would welcome your experience and knowledge. If you don't want to do that, however, I can fund a new venture you might like to start. Or you can just work your way through all the books in the library. All I ask is that you make reasonable attempts to fulfill your end of our bargain."

"I could spend half my time at the Northpoint, and the other half at the Triple D."

She smiled. "A modern day Persephone."

"That would make you Hades," he laughed, then surprised her by running a fingertip over one of her eyebrows. "I don't think you have the thicketry for that role, either."

Dany's smile faded; his touch felt like a lick of flame and, just like that, her excitement from earlier— never completely extinguished— flared up again. He seemed to sense it, or perhaps his own excitement was a volatile thing as well, because he sobered and did that thing he had done before, that made her breath feel thick and heavy: he slid his hand into her hair and held her still for his kiss.

Any worries she might have had about their first two kisses being flukes were put to rest with the third; it was just as affecting to her sensibilities, just as damaging to her composure, as the others had been. His lips were plush against hers, insistent as they slid and rubbed and caressed. His tongue was sleek velvet, and each stroke of it made desire lance through her until she was gasping into his mouth, hands scrabbling on his shoulders for purchase to hold him closer.

When they finally pulled back, they were both panting, mouths swollen and damp, eyes glowing with desire.

"Yes," Jon said. "Tonight. Or whenever I get back. As soon as I get back from the Northpoint with Ghost," he replied.

"Ghost?"

"My horse."

"Ah, of course."

"And you will have to explain… things… to your people," he added, and gestured around them. Dany glanced at their surroundings for the first time in a while, and realized that her well-trained horses, without her direction, had carried them back home and were patiently standing right before the house's front door.

For ranching purposes it was known as the Triple D, but a great-grandmother had cultivated an obsession with the manicured gardens of various Loire Valley castles and palaces, and dedicated a considerable amount of the property (and finances) to such fancies. Her son, Dany's grandfather, was equally inspired by Versailles, and had renovated the main house to be a full-scale replica of Marie Antoinette's Le Hameau. It looked bizarrely idyllic in the middle of a Texas meadow, surrounded by bluebonnets. She had always felt it ironic that a place of such harmonious beauty would be the home of so many people for whom 'harmony' had very little meaning. Targaryens were a passionate lot— usually overly so, to their detriment.

To her combined mortification and amusement, every window in the front of the house had a servant pressed against it, watching avidly as their mistress did improper things with a strange man while still seated in her buggy. Jon helped her down, and together they entered the house. She tried to view the frescoed plaster and elegant French tiles and muted colors from his eyes, and wondered if he felt contempt for her and her clearly-mad relatives. She hoped not, because it wasn't as if she could change it.

Her housekeeper, Missandei, appeared at once. Missandei was a little on the young side, but she had proven herself time and again as reliable and efficient after her predecessor had been run off by Viserys thinking she was Henry VIII when he was in the throes of believing himself to be both Anne Boleyn _and_ Catherine Howard. She had not been able to withstand his braying accusations of plotting to behead him. Fortunately, Missandei had stepped into the breach, undeterred by Viserys' conviction that she was Joan of Arc, and everything had run beautifully ever since.

A few other servants crept closer, obvious in their curiosity, because Dany never brought anyone home. The idea was unthinkable, and yet… there she was. With him. With a deep breath, she faced them with a big smile that, she hoped, disguised her apprehension, and spoke.

"Mr. Jon Snow has done me the honor of becoming my husband…"


	14. Chapter 14

Brienne V

When it was time to make supper, Brienne extricated herself from Jaime's clutches, leaving him to nap on the settee. He looked like he needed it. Pod had set the children to rounding up the chickens for the night with the smallest of the dogs, Jack, making sure they were safely in their coop for the night. When they were done, she collected Tommen and Myrcella to help her cook, figuring it was never too late or too early for them to learn how. Together, they put together as nice a meal as they had the ingredients for: pork chops, potatoes roasted in duck fat, snap beans with a handful of slivered almonds tossed on top, and the last of the applesauce that Ma had put by before she got too ill. Brienne wasn't much of a baker, so dessert would just be some of Pa's favorite molasses candies, as usual.

She set Tommen to washing up what he could, and Myrcella to setting the table and cutting up Pa's servings, and went to wake Jaime. When she shook his shoulder, he woke abruptly and fixed her with those brilliant green eyes, looking confused. She could see the exact moment he remembered the events of the day, though, because he smiled up at her in a way that made her chest feel hollowed out.

"Supper," she told him, returning to the kitchen— _fleeing_ to the kitchen, really, but he was right on her heels, declaring that he was starving and this was going to be the best meal he'd ever eaten.

He didn't flicker an eyelash when she introduced him to Pa, despite her father being half-paralyzed and confined to a wheeled chair from his apoplexy, only gave him a broad smile and every indication he truly was honored to meet Selwyn Tarth. Pa, for his part, seemed amused and pleased in turns, if the sly looks he kept shooting Brienne were any indication. He probably thought someone of Jaime's excruciating handsomeness no more than his daughter deserved, having always held an unrealistically inflated opinion of Brienne's charms. He thought she was as beautiful as Sansa and Daenerys and Margaery all rolled into one, the dear, deluded man.

"We helped, Dad," said Tommen shyly, and Jaime gave him a shaky smile.

"You did a good job," he replied, and his son beamed back.

Brienne was touched by how deeply he cared for his children, how much it meant to him to be with them. It was at odds with the reputation he had around town which, she was beginning to realize, was undeserved. The same people who called him a playboy and womanizer would, the next day, wonder aloud about whom, exactly, he was sleeping with, since he was never at the saloon and he'd never been seen lurking around any of the ladies in town. She was starting to think she'd married the most faithful man in Texas, if he'd truly been keeping himself to his sister alone for the past two decades.

The problem with that being, of course, that it was his _sister_.

The thought of it made her skin crawl, again, and she could not prevent the shudder of disgust that rolled up her spine.

"Cold?" he asked her. She glanced up from her plate to see his earnest gaze focused on her, looking for all intents and purposes as if he actually _cared_ if she were chilled or not. Her heart gave a sad little twist.

"No," she replied shortly, and looked back down at her pork chop. How could she still be susceptible to him in one minute when his actions sickened her in the previous? What was it about him that affected her so easily? It wasn't his looks, she didn't think, because she had spent time with various Starks and Tyrells and Baratheons, all of whom were accounted extremely handsome, and not one of them had ever made her feel so flustered and warm and… and lazy, almost, like she just didn't have any strength and needed to lay down.

Preferably under her new husband.

Brienne rushed through her supper and brought out to Pod the plate she'd made for him. She'd asked him to join them but he had refused.

"It should just be family," he had insisted, but the way he'd looked out for the children, she figured he was practically related. Tomorrow she'd try again, and insist, that time.

On her way back to the house, she met Jaime halfway across the yard. The sun was setting, and the low angle of it threw butter-yellow rays of light across him, sparking gold in his eyes and hair. He squinted against the glare, and even the lines at his temples didn't detract from his appeal. _Dammit_. All the men in Texas she could have saved from the noose, and she got the one who only got better looking with age.

"I thought I could have a bath before bed," he said. "Your father said baths are done in the barn?"

Brienne nodded and led the way to where the back stall served as their bathing room. Since Tarths only came in 'extra-tall', regular bathtubs for normal-sized people were exercises in cramped legs and water-sloshed floors, so they'd given up and just commandeered a giant horse trough to be the family tub. Jaime took one look and started laughing. She couldn't begrudge him the humor; it _was_ pretty funny, she supposed.

"This will be the first bath I've ever had where my knees weren't up to my ears," he said, grinning, then looked around for some source of heat or hot water., but finding none. "What do you do in the winter?"

"Shiver," she replied, making him laugh again. She pointed to the bench by the trough, on one side of which rested the soap. The other side held stacks of flannels and towels.

To her horrified delight (or perhaps it was delighted horror?) Jaime began unbuttoning his waistcoat right there.

"Oh," she said stupidly, and backed out of the stall, slamming the door shut. She leaned her forehead against the rough wood for a moment, certain this was the last day she could enjoy her firm grasp on rationality; no one could remain sane in Jaime's presence for long.

"You sure you want to leave?" he asked, a smile in his voice. Her lack of footsteps crunching in the straw and hay scattered on the floor had betrayed her lingering presence. "You could join me, you know, wench. This thing might even be big enough for both of us."

"Hah," said Brienne, and stomped back to the house to get him some of Galladon's things to wear. Upon her return, she heard him singing to himself, off-key and frankly terrible, but… it was endearing, somehow. She slung the outfit— trousers, underdrawers, undershirt, shirt, suspenders— over the stall door and hurried away before he could make another suggestive comment.

Together, she and Myrcella made short work of the washing up, while Tommen helped Pa with something in his bedroom. Pa wouldn't reveal what they were doing, and Brienne suspected he was getting together some sort of wedding present for her and Jaime. She wished he wouldn't, but… he was so happy that she was married, even if it had come about in such a peculiar way, without love or even fondness. She knew he'd always entertained ideas of her having a proper wedding, and felt bad there'd be no walk down the aisle for him, no church service, no party and cake afterward. She didn't have the heart to scold him for whatever little measure of celebration he managed for her.

They all settled on the porch when they were done, rocking comfortably and doing busy-work in the pools of light thrown by the lanterns Brienne lit around them. Myrcella had said she could sew and knit, so Brienne gave her a choice of either mending or darning; she chose mending and was soon plying a needle along a loosened seam. Brienne usually busied herself of an evening with repairing something or another, and that night would be no different: she had to replace the handle on one of the pitchforks, so she got down to it, using a hatchet to whittle a stout branch to the proper thickness and smooth off any rough parts until it only lacked a rub with some sandpaper to be as well-made as something that could be bought from the Manderleys.

She could put it together with the metal tines and handle tomorrow, when the light was better, but there was no reason she couldn't scour off the rust from those parts, then oil them for protection from the elements. When she was done, she looked up to find Jaime, bathed and dressed, staring at her like she'd put one of the chickens on her head and done a jig.

"What?" Brienne demanded, self-conscious.

"I can't believe you just did that," he said, seeming almost stunned.

"Wasn't going to mend itself," she told him, taking one of the molasses candies and untwisting the paper around it. Myrcella giggled, then folded her lips in to suppress it when Jaime shot her an amused look.

"Tell her what we're used to seeing ladies do after supper, 'Cella," he told her.

She smiled happily at the nickname before looking to Brienne. "There might be sewing, but it would be embroidery, not anything practical like this." She held up the humble shirt she was mending. "There might be a game of cards, or charades. Perhaps reading aloud, or playing the piano or singing."

Brienne shook her head. "If I just sat around doing nothing all evening, we'd starve," she said. "Especially since it's just me doing everything, now that Pa is sick and Ma and Gal are gone." She blinked hard a few times to keep the tears back. It was still so hard to accept they were gone.

A year ago on that day, Galladon had still been alive, had sat in the very chair Jaime now occupied, his big feet tapping along to whatever he was humming as he replaced the broken glass of a lantern or sewed patches onto ripped feed bags. _Two_ years ago on that day, Ma would have been there with them, in the chair Myrcella rocked back and forth in, and doing the same job of mending their clothes.

Pa had still been well, then, and he'd have been whittling or repairing something just like everyone else. Sometimes, though, when there wasn't too much needing fixing, he'd have played the spoons, setting a rollicking rhythm that they tried to match with hammer or hatchet, eventually going so fast that they couldn't keep up with him and they all ended up laughing when they fumbled.

Brienne wondered when she'd stop thinking in terms of 'this time last year, they were still alive' or 'six months ago, Pa was still able to do this'. She wondered if she ever would.

"Hey," Jaime said softly, touching her arm. "I'm sorry."

She looked up at him and saw that he and Myrcella were looking at her with concern. It was then she realized she'd been crying. The unwrapped candy was still in her hand, and she'd dripped tears onto it. She swallowed hard.

"Frankie!" she called to one of the dogs, her voice thick. "That'll do!"

Frankie bounded up, sitting at her feet and panting, happy to be summoned by his adored mistress. She fed him the candy and he began chewing it joyfully. She rubbed his head and said, "Walk on," so he yipped around his mouthful and obediently jogged back to his cattle.

She knew they were still watching her. She wanted to pretend they weren't, but she couldn't just weep in front of them and say nothing.

"Wasn't you," she told Jaime. "Been a bad few years. And I'm… I'm tired."

She wasn't sure why she said that last part. It was the first time she had admitted it to anyone else, and it made her feel weak. She should be able to do what she needed to do without whining to others. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the chair.

"You're not alone anymore, Brienne," Jaime said cautiously. "I'm here, now, and so are Myrcella and Tommen. And Pod will probably stay. We're all here. Just tell us what to do, and we'll do it."

She opened her eyes and looked at him. For once, his face was absent of a smile, or teasing, or seducing. She searched his eyes and found only truth. She closed her eyes once more, hoping she wouldn't cry again.

"Thanks," she said. "That'll help." But the kids couldn't be there all day. "We have to talk about lessons."

"Lessons?" said Jaime.

"Yes," said Brienne. She looked to Myrcella. "How have you been taking lessons up 'til now?"

"We had a governess," she replied. "She was the first to leave, when the ranch hands got fresh."

"I worry about you going to school," Brienne said bluntly. "Now that everyone knows about your dad, the other students won't be kind. And their parents might object to your being in the same class as their children."

Myrcella flinched, and Brienne felt badly, but there was no point in coddling her. She had to learn how people could be. How they'd take any opportunity to grind her down. She had to be strong enough to survive it, and that wouldn't happen if they all pretending the world was any different than Brienne knew it to be.

"What can we do, then?" the girl asked, her head downcast. "I don't have to go to school. Lots of girls stop going, at my age."

Brienne shook her head. "Ignorant women are easy to control," she said firmly. "Men like women who have to depend on them." Jaime frowned, and she amended, "Many of them. Not all. I don't think your dad is like that. I know mine isn't. My brother wasn't. The Stark boys aren't."

Myrcella flushed then, and took a sudden, passionate interest in the fraying cuff she was repairing.

"Ah," said Brienne. "Robb or Jon?"

Myrcella turned a brighter pink. "Robb," she mumbled.

"Too old for you."

"Only nine years!" Myrcella protested, with all the fervor of an infatuated young girl.

"Bran, though… just a year younger. He'd do," Brienne continued as if Myrcella hadn't spoken.

" _I_ _'_ _m_ nine years older than you," Jaime pointed out, looking amused.

Brienne looked from him to his daughter. "Wait until you're twenty-six and Robb is thirty-five, then, and we'll discuss it."

Myrcella frowned at her, unsure if she were joking or not. Brienne grinned at Jaime, surprising him into smiling back. He looked relieved he'd been able to avoid getting involved.

"But… school. You need to keep learning. And Tommen is far too young to quit," Jaime said quietly. "But Brienne is right. People can be cruel. I can get another governess—"

"I didn't like having a governess," said Tommen from behind them, and they turned to see he had pushed Pa in his chair and they were paused in the doorway. "It was boring and lonely. I want to make some friends."

"I don't know if that will be possible," said Brienne. "You can try. You'll have to be strong, to withstand the bullying. And if any parents object, you might not be allowed to go."

"I'll try," said Tommen. "I want to try."

"Me, too." Myrcella's chin wobbled, but she said, "I'll try, too."

Brienne thought they were the bravest children she'd ever met. They stood there, after their worlds had ended three times over, and took on another challenge.

"You're good kids," she told them. "Strong. We're lucky to have you."

"Lucky," agreed Pa.

Jaime swallowed hard. "Lucky," he said, too, but he was looking at Brienne, and she had a feeling he meant her, instead of, or maybe in addition to. Gods, why had she said that? Bad enough she had cried; if he or the children started…

"Time for bed," she announced. "Got to be up early. You ready, Pa? What were you and Tommen doing for so long?"

Pa grinned at her. "Come see," he said, gesturing.

Tommen reversed, then they led the way down the hallway where the bedrooms were. When they reached Pa's room, however, Brienne saw that it was quite different— all of his things were gone, and in their places were her own familiar possessions.

"Pa…?" she said, a bad feeling starting in her belly. "Where are your things?"

"Yours now," he replied. "Married, so… both. You, Jaime."

 _Oh, gods in all seven heavens._ He and Tommen had spent the evening switching her room for Pa's so she and Jaime could share it. Beside her, Jaime smiled, and she pinched the bridge of her nose, searching for patience.

"Pa…" she began, trying to find a way to gently reject his effort, but he lifted a hand to cut her off.

"Want grandkids," he said baldly. "More grandkids," he amended after a fond look at Myrcella and Tommen, who both startled, but smiled. Brienne knew her face was scarlet.

"Look at the size of that bed," Jaime said with an exaggerated whistle. "I've married into a family of giants, and I couldn't be happier. My feet won't hang off the end for the first time in my life."

Pa looked up at her, so pleased and hopeful that she couldn't bear to disappoint him. She'd deprived him of the wedding he'd wanted for her. She couldn't take this from him, too.

"Thank you," she sighed. "Let's get you into bed, first—"

"I'll do it," said Jaime. "I had a nap, earlier, but you're tired." When she didn't speak, he said, softly, "Let me help you, Brienne."

She stared at him, uncertain. It felt like shirking, somehow. He was a stranger. How could she trust her father to him? But she had to learn to, eventually. Somehow. This might be a good first attempt. She'd be in just the next room, if anything went wrong.

And so she nodded. "Thanks."

Then Brienne went into her— their— new bedroom and shut the door. She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall for a moment. Whatever changes she'd expected to occur that day bore no resemblance to how things had ended up.

One thing was certain, though: Jaime Lannister was not laying a fingertip on her that night.

She stripped off as quickly as she could, washing briefly at the washstand and cleaning her teeth, then rummaging through her mother's oak dresser until she found one of Galladon's old shirts that she'd taken to wearing to bed. She hated long nightgowns, and how they twisted around her legs as she slept. Exhaustion slammed into her as she peeled back the covers, and she almost fell onto the bed, using her last bit of strength to draw the worn sheet and quilt up to her shoulders before falling unconscious.

At some point after that, she was jostled awake by someone getting into bed with her. She was disoriented for a moment until she remembered the bizarre turn her life had taken.

"Jaime," she croaked, her voice trepidatious.

"Go back to sleep, wench," he told her, sounding amused, and she just knew he was wearing that smile that said he was laughing at her in his head. "Don't worry, I won't try anything."

"Good," she lied, and fell back asleep.

* * *

Jon VI

Jon helped his new wife down from the buggy and followed her into the fairytale mansion she called 'home'.

"Mr. Jon Snow has done me the honor of becoming my husband," Dany said as she looked at the array of wide-eyed servants around her. "I trust you will make him welcome, as he is your new master here."

"Of course," said a young woman Jon presumed was the housekeeper. "Many congratulations to you both. Welcome, Mr. Snow. What would you have us do next, Miss Daenerys… Mrs. Snow? I beg your pardon."

" 'Miss Daenerys' is still fine, Missandei," Dany said. "No need to confuse everyone with a new name." Missandei smiled and nodded. "Please tell Cook to prepare a cold supper. We will ring for it when we are ready."

Missandei glanced around at the other servants; they melted away as if they'd never been there.

"Shall I prepare a bedroom for Mr. Snow?"

Dany opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, Jon replied for her.

"You can call me Jon. And we will be sharing a room," he informed Missandei. He might not have say over any other aspect of their lives, but he would be damned if she'd use him and then boot him from the room when she was through with him. "If my wife's—" he paused a moment, feeling peculiar about using the unfamiliar word "—room is not large enough for two, please move her things into one that is."

To her credit, Missandei did not blink, nor move a muscle, keeping her eyes locked on Jon's, but he knew she was waiting for confirmation from her mistress.

"An excellent idea," Dany said after a moment. "It would not do to be cramped."

"Your parents' room, then, Miss Daenerys."

Dany grimaced, but nodded. "Whatever can be changed by bedtime, please do so. I would like as little original remaining as possible."

He frowned, wondering why she seemed so displeased.

"I'll see what hands are available to help," said Missandei, smiled, and left to begin.

"I should go now," Jon said when they were alone again.

"Yes."

"What was that about the bedroom?"

Dany took a deep breath before answering, speaking with clear reluctance. "My parents were not a happy match. My father was… not kind to my mother. There were many times Viserys and I could hear him shouting and her screaming, even though the thick walls we have. The few times I have been able to bear being in their room, it seemed as if I could still hear her weeping. I hope that removing the furniture, the curtains, everything, will make it feel…" She averted her eyes. "…not like that."

Now he felt terrible. He would not have said anything if he'd known. "We won't use it, then. Not until everything is different, at least."

She blinked up at him in surprise. "Really? You don't mind?"

"I'm going to make love to the most beautiful girl in Texas," he said, unable to suppress a little grin. "I think we could do it in the stable and I wouldn't mind."

"I don't think I would mind, either," she whispered, seeming shocked… and eager, if the way she was gazing up at him, eyes heavy-lidded and lips parted, was any indication.

Heat lanced through Jon's belly. The memory of their three kisses made his breath come faster. "You keep looking at me like that, we might not even make it to the stables."

"Oh," she said, moving back, "I'm sorry. I meant what I said, about being available when _you_ want. I don't want to bother you if you're not—"

Jon laughed. "I don't know a man alive who would be bothered by you wanting them," he told her, and this time could not resist the impulse to slide an arm around her waist and pull her close. He lowered his mouth to hers for a quick kiss, but it still ended up being devastating to their composure. When he set her away from him, they were both breathless.

"I'll be back soon. An hour, maybe two, but no longer," he told her. He needed some time with his family; they'd had so little of it together in the wake of all the tragedy that had befallen them.

She nodded. "I'll be here."

He was halfway out the door, hat on his head once more, but felt that he should tell her something that had remained unsaid. He stopped and turned back. "Thank you," he said. "For saving my life. I did not kill him."

"You're welcome," Dany replied, looking a little surprised at his words. "I was glad to do it, and not only because you will be helping me with my own problem. And… I know you didn't do it."

Jon had no idea the reason for her belief in him, but he was damned glad for it. It would be hard enough to be married to a woman he hardly knew and did not love, but to endure her suspicion because she did not trust him, believing he'd done something he hadn't, would be intolerable. "Good."

Then he was gone, springing up into her— their— buggy and flicking the ribbons to set the team into motion. Riding or driving had always been good for him when he needed to think in private. He knew others thought him funny for how he brooded, but he had always been someone who pondered about things a lot. More people could stand to ponder their business, in his opinion. Hasty decisions rarely ended up well. He dearly hoped his new marriage would not be one of them. There had been so many enormous changes in his life in a short while that his head never seemed to stop spinning. Any one of them alone would have been a harsh blow, but all of them at once was catastrophic.

Jon was glad Joffrey was dead. Sheriff Clegane had told him, at one point while Jon was in the jail, that Joffrey had been gut-shot and died in agony. Jon was a bit ashamed of himself, but couldn't deny the gladness he felt to learn of it. The injustice of his father's death would roil in Jon's belly for the rest of his life. He had left so much undone. There was so much he would never get to see.

Being tried for killing Joffrey… the thing was, if Jon had done it, he wouldn't have minded being convicted for it. Of all the sacrifices to make, punishing a man who'd beat a woman and kill unsuspecting men would have been something to be proud of. He'd have pleaded guilty before all and sundry, and even if Brienne or Dany had offered to marry him, he couldn't say he'd have accepted.

The last, most baffling turn of events was his marriage. It would have been bizarre enough to be married to Brienne, though at least he'd known her for years and there was no expectation of, well, anything. As long as he helped her on the E-Star when needed, they might have gone their entire lives with him still living back at the Northpoint. Maybe after a few years of celibacy, he'd have approached her for a renegotiation of terms. He would like children, and she'd need someone to leave her ranch to, wouldn't she? One way or another, they'd have settled into a predictable, if unusual, routine, with few demands on each other, and little in the way of surprises or excitement. Jon didn't mind. Rather liked it that way, in fact: if the past week had taught him anything, it was that excitement was overrated.

…well, perhaps _some_ excitement was overrated. Other kinds, however… _other_ kinds of excitement could be even more incredible than he'd have believed possible, to an almost unbearable degree.

 _Dany_.

Jon absently admired the sunlight gleaming pale on the cremellos' haunches. Just thinking Dany's name made the muscles of his belly clench. She'd seemed unreachable from the first, unattainable, a princess of formed of ice who barely noticed the lower beings milling about in confusion around her. It had been peculiar to see her behaving so mundanely, helping Brienne with her hair. Jon wondered if, when she plucked the hairpins from his upraised palm, she had also felt the tiny spark he had where her fingertips touched his hand.

He had felt it again, somehow, in the midst of his grief when she had covered his hand with her own. The idea of frosty Daenerys Targaryen trying to offer him— him, Ned Stark's glum bastard— comfort in the midst of his sorrow was baffling. And… touching, somehow. She'd recognized his misery, and sought to lessen it. Was it pity for his loss and the injustice he suffered that spurred her to offer him marriage? Was it a feeling of obligation to his father? Or could it just have been a whim, as she said, indulged because his situation was a solution for her own? He had a feeling it was a complicated mix of all three.

He'd felt her shock when he'd kissed her the first time, and seen the amazement on her face after the second, and her curiosity after the third. One thing was certain: she had never expected to do anything more than tolerate his attentions in bed. He compared how he'd wanted her right away with Dany's pragmatism for the match and became more and more annoyed by it.

Jon decided then and there that while she had not wed him out of any love, or fondness, or even a sense of attraction, she damned well was not going to retain that chilly practicality for any length of time. She might not have any use for him beside getting her with child, but there was no way he was going to stay relegated to the status of a stud bull, to be stimulated and used and then cast away when no longer needed. He would be an equal partner in their marriage, and he was going to start by going back to her ranch— beg pardon, her _estate_ — that evening and making her _scream_.

And then they'd see how chilly or practical she felt.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: Thanks for those of you reviewing! Those of you who aren't: could you? Just so I know more than a half-dozen people are reading this?**

* * *

Dany IV

Once Jon and the buggy had rattled down the drive, Dany went to the bell-pull and summoned Missandei back.

"We have changed our minds," she announced. "Continue with removing everything from my parents' room, but we will not be using it right away. When it is empty, scrub it clean from top to bottom. Later, we will choose paint, fabrics, everything. But for now, give my room a thorough airing, beat the drapes and rug… perhaps shift the furniture around… make it as new as possible."

"I understand." Missandei had a gentle smile on her pretty face. "I know just what to do."

"I will be in the library, and should not be disturbed, though of course my… husband may join me there upon his return, if he wishes."

Missandei nodded. "Yes, Miss Daenerys."

Dany took herself to the library, leaning back against the door upon shutting it, and closing her eyes. Though she had been mentally preparing for marriage for a long while, she had not expected it to occur that very day. She was in a tumult, blushing again to recall her forward behavior that afternoon: her reaction to their wedding kiss, their flirtatious interaction and that tempting little tease of a kiss when he departed. He expected to take her tonight, but… would he also expect her to be any good at it?

An unfamiliar emotion unfurled low in her belly: fear. She knew she had no reason to fear Jon, that he would not hurt her, but… she had read all those books of Great-Great-Aunt Rhae, the ones with the filthy drawings and etchings. Some of the things they showed looked so… intimate. As if one not only bared one's body but one's soul, too, and the idea of placing herself so wholly into the custody of another person, a man, _that_ man, was very daunting.

She hurried to the corner of the library where she kept all of Great-Great-Aunt Rhae's books and selected the one she had always liked best, with the beautiful hand-painted watercolors and careful rendering of faces contorted in what Dany hoped was ecstasy and not agony. She placed it on the lectern near the middle of the room, hopped up onto the tall stool before it, and began to peruse its contents.

Each spread of pages was a detailed scenario illustrating a particular position or practice, with nothing left to the imagination; the artist had clearly been dedicated to the cause of anatomical authenticity. After a dozen pages, she began to feel as if her clothes had shrunk a size; after a dozen more, she was feeling distinctly overheated, but not in the normal areas, such as across her back or around her throat; no, she was feeling hot in her belly, and her chest, and most especially between her legs. She gazed down at where a plump fair-haired lady was standing against a wall, one foot on the ground and the other wrapped around the hips of her lover, a young man with dark curls whose buttocks dimpled as he thrust into her. Dany's breath came faster and faster.

"Of all the things I thought to find when I got back," Jon said from immediately behind her, "this is definitely not one of them."

Dany let out an alarmed little shriek, spinning on the stool to face him. "Wh— when— when did you return?"

"Just now," he replied. There was a curious little smile on his lips, and an even more curious light in his eyes. "I wasn't even quiet about coming in here, but I see you were distracted."

She felt her face flame with mortification. "I— it's just that— well, I hadn't expected to need to know what to do, you see. Not today, at least. I thought it might be best to refresh my memory." She avoided his gaze, looking past his shoulder. "I don't want to disappoint you."

He said nothing, just watched her for a moment, before saying, "Refresh your memory? You've looked through these before?"

Dany nodded, relieved to talk about the book instead of her own thoughts and apprehensions. "Many times. This book, and all the others."

"Others? How many more are there?"

"Oh, at least a dozen," she replied with a wave toward their corner. "Great-Great-Aunt Rhae was very fond of them."

Jon had an odd expression on his face, like he couldn't decide if he were appalled or amused. He seemed to choose amusement, because he gave her a tiny little grin, and then set about making her catch on fire from embarrassment.

"If you've read this one before… show me your favorite drawings, then."

She caught her breath. Could he really mean for her to show him the poses she had found most compelling? To look at them _together_? She couldn't possibly… could she?

But… they were married. She needed children from him. She had promised him free access to her body in exchange for his lack of interference in every other aspect of their lives together. She could do this; she _would_ do this. Dany spun around on the stool once more, facing the book, and flipped the pages back to the beginning.

"I don't really have favorites," she told him. "I haven't _done_ any of it, so I don't know which I'll like best." Her breath was still coming funny. "Why don't you tell me which of these you have done before, instead?"

There, now it was put before him instead of resting upon her. She wondered if he could tell how fast her pulse was beating, quick as a jackrabbit's, fluttering in her wrists and at her throat.

"Alright." He stepped closer, until she could feel the heat of him all down her back. "Show me the first page."

Dany turned the title page and revealed the first drawing, of a couple engaged in enthusiastic, if tame, intercourse in what was neatly calligraphed 'missionary' underneath.

"I've done that one," he said easily. She turned the page, and another couple featured a golden-haired gentleman on his back while his blonde lady straddled his waist and lowered herself onto him. "I've done that one, too."

Was his voice sounding a bit lower in pitch? She fancied it was, but it could just be her imagination, her hope that he was affected, as well, because she was starting to feel even more overheated. She turned the page. A Titian beauty was on her hands and knees, and a strapping fellow with long dark hair was behind her, over her, surrounding her as he pounded his hips against hers.

"I've done that."

Perhaps his voice wasn't lower, but it was closer. _He_ was closer, and Dany gave a little jolt when his hands came down on her shoulders, very lightly. She turned the page. It was a red-headed man standing, his hands in the brunette hair of a woman kneeling before him. Her hands were cupping his bottom as he thrust into her mouth. Jon touched his thumb to the side of her neck, rubbing its calloused tip up and down over her pulse. Dany's mouth fell open, the better to pull in the air she needed so badly, since it felt like she was not getting enough.

"That, too."

She turned the page. This time, the drawing was of the fair-haired woman once more, but this time she was reclined back with thighs parted and her lover kneeling between them. He had spread open her center with his fingers and buried his mouth against her. The woman's head was thrown back, and her mouth was open in a rapturous cry. Dany made a rough little sound in her throat. She had seen this page before, many times, in fact, but never had it affected her so.

"I've done that," Jon said. His voice sounded perfectly normal; he wasn't bothered at all, and there was Dany, heaving like a bellows. "I can do that to you." He bent and placed a kiss on her neck, right over her pulse where his thumb had been stroking. "Would you like me to?"

"Yes," she breathed, her stomach tightening as a dagger of need slashed through her. " _Please_."

He turned her to face him, then curled his hand around the back of her neck. Dany gasped: his voice might have sounded normal, but his eyes were alight with lust, and he looked absolutely _starving_. He pulled her toward him, or she leaned in, and then his lips were on hers. They were warm and smooth and soft, and she rued that she didn't know too well what to do with them, but he was patient, and didn't seem to mind her fumbling as she tried to imitate him. She was soon entranced by the practice, loving the sensations of pressure, suction, moisture, and so she was eager to go along when he bit gently into her bottom lip, then slipped his tongue past it. She whimpered and opened for him.

He kissed her deeply, and she was soon clutching at his waistcoat, straining to get closer to him. Her clothes were unbearably tight, and she felt sweat dampen her back. The snug casing of her corset felt oppressive. She kissed him back more boldly as her confidence grew, and he groaned into her mouth before pulling away. She chased after him, mouth searching for his, but he took a step back and tugged her off the stool to her feet.

"Go sit on that wing chair," he said in a hoarse voice. She wobbled to it and sat, folding her hands in her lap because she didn't know what to do with them. He went to the door and rotated the key in the lock. When he turned back to her, he just stood there and stared for a few moments, his eyes fierce and hot. Dany was transfixed by him, unable to look away.

Jon prowled over to her, then, and dropped to his knees at her feet. Hands on her thighs, he leaned forward and kissed her once more, until she was dazed and sagging against him in a lustful swoon. Then he hooked his hands behind her knees and jerked her forward, so that her bottom rested at the very edge of the seat. He grabbed fistfuls of her skirts and hoisted them up, until she had a rustling heap of taffeta rucked up at her waist, and all that separated her most private place from the world was a thin wisp of pantalettes, the cloth so fine her skin glowed through it, tinting the creamy silk palest pink.

Jon palmed her knees and spread them wide, then leaned in so he was between them. Dany, panting, could not take her eyes off of him. His clever fingers found the garment's open seam at her very center and then, beyond it, her own seam; he parted both, and sucked in a breath of surprise.

"You're so wet," he murmured, staring down at what he had revealed.

"I'm sorry," Dany said immediately, and tried to shove her skirts back down, but he stopped her.

"No, it's good," he said. "It's very good."

He bent to her, then, and pressed his mouth to her the same way the man had done to the girl in the book. The stroke of his tongue, from where she welled with fluid up to the top of her slit, was like a streak of lightning. Dany gripped handfuls of her skirts, uncaring that she was crushing them hopelessly and there would be no way to hide what they were doing, at least not from her maid.

"Oh!" she cried out, shocked beyond belief. This didn't feel anything like the inept fumblings, soon abandoned, that she'd performed on herself on those occasions after Great-Great-Aunt Rhae's books had rendered her flustered enough to try it. "J— Jon!"

He stopped and looked up her body, then at her hands. "If you want to hold on to something, you can hold my head."

"I don't want to pull your hair," she panted.

"I like it," was Jon's response, and she realized then that he was panting too, just as aroused as she was. With a moan, she slipped her hands into his dark curls and drew his face down between her legs once more. This time, when she needed to ground herself in a firm grip, she twined her fingers in his hair and arched up against his mouth. His answering groan made her feel even more desperate for him.

Her excitement grew apace with her shock, pushed ever higher with each stroke of his tongue, and her cries had become more of a continuous wail when Jon stopped and sat back on his heels.

"Is that it?" she asked after a moment, breathless, her entire body twitching with frustration. "It seems like there should be more to it."

"There's more." His tone was amused, but his face was deadly serious, his dark eyes burning. Dany fancied she could see a red glint in them, when a stray sunbeam caught his irises. "But this is your first time. It should be in a bed, with your clothes off. Not sprawled back in a chair, fully-dressed, and me treating you like a—"

"Don't say it," she interrupted, surprising herself with how fierce she felt. "I want my first time to be something I remember with fondness. And so far it has been… quite good. I don't need whatever image you have in your mind that it should be. And I don't want to have to wait until we get upstairs, and all of this off—" she gestured to her elaborate garb "—so unless we can't get it done like this, I'd… I'd like to continue here." She paused. "Unless you wanted the bed and the nu—nudity for yourself? If you prefer that, of course I will—"

"There will be time enough for that later." He stared down at her. "As long as you don't mind—"

"I don't mind." Her limbs were still trembling, and frustration gnawed at her belly. She had been on the way to something that, she suspected, would be glorious. " _Hurry_."

That made him smile, a full smile, not just the tiny quirk of the lips she was becoming used to. Possibly addicted to. Dany sat up, wanting to kiss that smile, and reached for him. He met her halfway, mouth slanting open over hers, and as his tongue slid against hers, she felt his hands moving between them. When he pulled away, she saw he'd removed his gun belt and unbuttoned his trousers, and his member— his _cock_ , she remembered it being called in one of Great-Great-Aunt Rhae's books— thrust forward from his hips, long and thick and deeply flushed at the tip, and a wave of need shook her. Weak, she lay back once more.

"Hurry," she whispered again. She had wondered for so long about this, had never thought she'd actually want it so much. She had expected to merely tolerate the marital act, or have it feel as nice as when she explored herself, but the persistent tug of arousal she'd experienced in the past, with no one in particular to aim it at, had nothing on the begging conflagration her body felt like at that moment. She not only wanted, but she wanted _him_ , Jon, and his kisses, and— "Oh!"

He had taking himself in hand and used the soft, swollen head of his cock to rub the erect bead at the top of her slit, and it was making her ache, and—

"Oh!" she cried out again, because he had slipped deep into her in one go. It surprised her, more than hurt, but there was a pang between her legs that felt a bit raw.

"I'm sorry," Jon said. "I thought it would be easier if you didn't think about it a lot."

Dany did not answer right away; she was examining how she felt. Yes, that raw pang was there, but fading, and she was so full, full of _him_ , full of his cock, and the knowledge of it had her gasping in excitement once more. "Yes," she panted. "It's better now. Keep going."

He withdrew from her and looked down, so she did as well. There was a pinkish smear down the length of him, as well as a wealth of gleaming pearly moisture, and to see where just the head of him was embedded sent another scalding rush of arousal through her. Instinctively, her hips rolled, trying to pull him back in. " _Jon_."

With a groan, he thrust into her, and Dany's head went back at the long stroke of it inside her. He pulled out and slid in, over and over, and the most embarrassing sounds came from her, a whimper of need pushing out with each of his thrusts. She wrapped her legs around his slim hips, gripping, and in response he clamped his hands on her waist with bruising strength, tugging down on her as he shoved up until he was pressed deeply inside. The base of his cock ground against that magical little spot at the top of her slit and with a wail Dany was thrown into a dark sea, drowning in pleasure. She cried out with every wave that crashed over her. She might have said 'oh!' or 'yes!' or 'more!' or all three, but she was blind and deaf to anything but the rapture thrumming through her veins.

When the joyful spasms had finally lessened enough that her senses returned to her, Dany felt warmth against and around her, then teasing pressure on her lips, and opened her eyes to find Jon had stretched forward, arms sliding down and under to embrace her, and begun a delightful little nibbling on her mouth. His chest worked hard to draw in breath, just as hers was. She moved her lips against his likewise, gentle pecks and rubs instead of anything deeper or more passionate. She felt a bone-deep satisfaction and put her own arms around him as well, her palms smoothing over the broad plane of his back and shoulders.

Then he straightened, and poked at her ribs. "Your corset is really uncomfortable to lay on top of."

"It's far worse when you're the one inside it," she replied tartly. "Would you like to see for yourself, one day?"

He flashed her his tiny grin. "I'll take your word for it." Then he looked down at where they were joined and slowly withdrew from her body. The leisurely stroke of him through her swollen, sensitive tissues made her gasp, and her hips rolled one last time. Jon's gaze darted up to her face and she blushed at such wanton behavior.

"I'm sorry," she said, averting her eyes. "You probably think I'm—"

"I _think_ ," he interrupted, but gently, "that this marriage is going to be a lot easier than I had believed." He sat back on his heels and set about putting himself back into his trousers. "I'd worried that we wouldn't be able to enjoy this together, and since it was all I was going to get out of the deal…"

"But you enjoyed it?" Her voice sounded small, and scared, and she despised herself for being so needy. She did not want to think that she had exposed herself as some loose, lustful woman, that her eagerness and abandon had given him reason to feel contempt. "Is it fine that I enjoyed it, too?"

He did not answer right away, but tugged the split seam of her pantalettes closed before pressing her knees together and pulling her skirts down. Then he took her hands and had her sit up. "Yes, and yes. We should both enjoy it. I've never agreed that women should look at it as a duty to endure. So I'm glad you liked it. I would feel terrible to just use you as you lay there, hating me. I don't think I could do it, to be honest."

She appreciated that honesty, thought he deserved some from her, as well.

"I'm glad. I know that this is not what you had envisioned for yourself, for your future. I don't know if it means anything to you, but… if I had to marry a stranger, I'm glad it was you."

"You truly don't care that I'm a bastard? That your family line will be blighted by illegitimacy?"

"My family line has been blighted for years, Jon." Dany could not stop the laugh that rippled out of her. "Anything you bring to it can only be an improvement."

He looked unconvinced but did not argue the point, standing and holding out a hand to help her get to her feet.

"So… I'm sure the servants have been holding dinner for a while," she said with a faint blush as she shook out her crumpled skirts. "They have to know what we've been doing in here… how can I look them in the eye again?"

"The way you were shouting, I bet all of Kingsland knows what we were up to," Jon said, but he was smiling, and seemed so light, the brooding having lifted away at least for a while, that she didn't have the heart to scold him for teasing her.

"We'll just have to brazen it out," Dany said. She was good at that. She put her shoulders back, her chin up and sailed from the room, Jon laughing as he followed her from the room.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: Hi, everyone! Thanks for your feedback and reviews, it makes me feel a little less like I'm shouting into a void, here.**

 **My updates might slow down a little, from twice a week to only weekly, as I get into the more emotionally-intricate chapters. The SanSan kicks into higher gear in the next chapter so I have to juggle three full pairings from now on, plus an actual plotline, instead of just the two pairings and subtle hinting at a third like before.**

 **Friends, if ever you have the urge to write a story like this with multiple pairings... don't. Or at least just keep it to only two pairings. Three is too much; that way lies madness.**

 **In other news: if you're a Brienne/Jaime shipper, I'm also writing a Modern AU where they're each in different rock bands. Slight Sansa/Sandor, as well. Hoping to have it put by or in early December. I'll put some snippets at the end of this chapter, as a teaser, so keep reading!**

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Jaime V

The next morning, Jaime woke to find that, at some point in the night, Brienne had draped herself across his chest, wrapped one arm very securely around his waist, and tucked her face into the crook of his neck.

Happiness, raw and unfamiliar, filled him. He had never spent the entire night with Cersei, had never even slept beside her for a short while after they'd made love. She'd always leapt right up, washed, dressed, and left him with a sly smile. At first he'd felt satisfied, replete, but as the years had passed and he had nothing else but a quick, businesslike fuck once or twice a week, his loneliness had grown, and with it an poisonous blend of bitterness and apathy. Was that all he'd ever have?

 _No,_ he thought. _That wasn_ _'_ _t all._ Now he had this. It wasn't much more, not yet, but… maybe. Maybe Brienne could warm to him. It might take a while, but that was fine. They had time.

He just lay there with her in his arms. If he held his breath, he could feel her heartbeat. After a while, he drowsed into a half-wakeful state where everything felt dreamlike. He couldn't be sure if Brienne actually ran her hand over his chest, or if she truly brushed her lips over his collarbone, but it felt real.

He _wanted_ it to be real.

"Brienne," he murmured.

Cool air rushed in to replace her as she moved away. Jaime rolled to his side to face her, and saw that she had laid on her back and was frowning deeply, but not in anger or unhappiness. She seemed… confused?

"What are you thinking so hard about?" he asked, his voice soft and rough from sleep. Brienne turned her head on the pillow to stare at him. Amused, he reached out and drew a fingertip along the crease between her eyes. "It's barely sunrise, what can you be worried about already?"

"You," she said, apparently not meaning to, because she then clamped her eyes shut in dismay to have admitted it.

"Oh?" The remnants of slumber left him. His gaze sharpened with interest. "What did I do to worry you while I was asleep?"

"Exist," she said bluntly.

He blinked. "I thought you _wanted_ me to exist. Isn't that why you married me? To keep me alive?"

"I meant… in bed. With me. I don't want you dead. I just want you… not here."

"I can tell," he said easily. "You look tense." When she frowned at him again, he looked pointedly in the direction of her chest, and she looked down at where her very hard nipples were pushing insistently against her shirt. Her eyes flew to his. She looked terrified— of him?

 _No,_ he thought, _of my reaction._ That he'd find her repulsive. A year ago, he might have. A month, even. Now? After he'd seen the strength and goodness in her? After he'd seen how madly he could make her blush? After he'd looked into her astonishing eyes, _blue blue blue_ , and seen the person behind them? Now, he thought she might be the most alluring woman he'd ever met. Certainly the most challenging, and Jaime had always enjoyed a challenge. He looked back down at her chest and licked his lips, wanting very much to be licking her nipples instead.

" 'S cold," she mumbled at last. Then, "You can sleep more." Her voice low and husky with sleep and, perhaps, embarrassment. He watched as she rose, tall and steady even at that early hour, to her feet.

"Stay with me," he said, and stretched his arm across the bed toward her.

She froze, and he thought that— just maybe— she really would lie back down, would take him in her arms and hold him close, and _gods_ , he wanted that, because she stared down at him with such longing that he was shocked. It had made him almost dizzy with relief when she had held him the previous day, so gentle and kind. He had been unsure of her, before this moment, had considered that maybe she truly felt no attraction to him, and since all he really had to offer her was his body, his face, what else could he bring to this marriage? What else could he do to make himself and Myrcella and Tommen worth the effort and inconvenience they surely posed Brienne?

But no. No, thank all the merciful gods, she did want him. He could work with that. "Just a minute more?"

She swallowed, still hesitating. But then she shook her head. "The cows wait for no one," she told him.

"Not even you?" he said with a laugh, and forced himself out of bed, too.

"Especially not me," she grumbled as she collected fresh clothes for the day.

He shucked his drawers automatically, preparing to don fresh ones as he always did each morning, before realizing all of his clean clothes were at Casterly Rock. "Um."

"Hm?" Brienne turned to attend him, then sucked in a horrified gasp to find him standing before her as bare as his nameday.

"I don't have anything to wear," he said sheepishly. "After morning chores, can we go to Casterly and get my things?"

Her gaze felt like it left a scorching trail as it wandered over him, lingering at his groin. Before he appalled her by hardening— which he would, if she kept staring like that— he turned away, but she gasped again, and he thought that maybe his bare ass was no more conducive to having her calm down than his prick was.

"Get dressed," Jaime told her. "I won't look. Then if you have anything I could wear for today…"

"Yes," she said faintly. He heard her moving around, the rustle of cloth, and then a light thump on the bed as she tossed a folded shirt and trousers to the mattress. "See you in the barn." And then she was gone.

Jaime dressed, then went to see if Mr. Tarth— Papa, as he wanted to be called— needed anything. He helped the older man get out of bed and dress, when wheeled him into the kitchen, lighting a few lamps against the gloom that lingered in the dim barely-dawn. He poked at the embers in the cookstove until it blazed up again, and set water to boiling in hopes it would help with whatever a person might do to make breakfast happen.

Then he went outside, where the world was still and dew-dampened and the sun just barely gleamed over the horizon. A dog, the larger black one with the white blaze on his chest, ran to the porch where Jaime stood and grinned up at him, tongue lolling.

"Frankie?" Jaime said, hoping it was the right name.

The dog gave a little yip, as if confirming it, and then loped a few steps away. When Jaime didn't move, Frankie stopped and turned to look at him with reproach. Was the dog trying to get him to follow? Frankie looked as if he heaved a sigh and then jogged back over, onto the porch and behind Jaime, giving him a firm goose in the ass with his nose to push Jaime forward.

"Okay, alright," said Jaime, laughing, and went with him.

Frankie led him to the barn where Pod was busy mucking the horses' stalls and Brienne was just finishing up pouring feed into bags and fastening them over the horses' heads.

"Did you really just send a dog to fetch me?" Jaime asked her.

"Ah, it worked," she said, smiling down at Frankie. "I wasn't sure he'd recognize your name already." She handed him a bucket. "Here, milk the cow."

He blinked at her as she strode off. Pod took pity on him and taught him how to milk a cow, and while it didn't go well, he managed it, and soon was lugging the bucket back to the house, where Brienne showed him and the children how to pour it into a basin and let it a while so the cream floated up and could be skimmed off and made into butter later.

After morning chores were done, they had breakfast, a group effort by the children and Brienne of eggs, oatmeal, and bracingly-strong coffee.

"Pod, you'll be alright separating out the weanlings, today?" asked Brienne as they finished. "Jaime and I are going to Casterly to get his things."

The hand nodded. "I've got Frankie and Jack, we'll be fine."

"And I'll help!" offered Tommen. Jaime shot Pod a glance to say 'be careful with him' and Pod nodded back a 'yes, I will'.

"Thanks," Brienne said to him, and ruffled his golden hair. He beamed up at her, and Jaime's heart clenched to see his son happy.

"Pa, you'll do some reading with Tommen and Myrcella?" she continued to her father.

He nodded. "Last of… Mo…"

"Last of the Mohicans." Brienne smiled. "My favorite."

He smiled back. "Brienne… Bumppo."

Brienne's face went red. The Lannisters all looked at her for explanation.

"I wanted to marry Natty Bumppo when I was a girl," she mumbled. "Ma and Pa and Galladon would tease me by calling me Brienne Bumppo." She averted her eyes and coughed. "Alright, time to go." And she fled from the house to the barn to hitch up the team. Jaime shared a grin with his children and goodfather and ambled out to join her in the barn.

"Hey," he said, as they climbed into the wagon, "any chance you'll let me pretend to be the man of the family and drive there?"

She surprised him by smiling. "Be my guest," she said, handing him the ribbons. "You can do all the driving from now on. I'll just sit back and be lazy."

They drove to Casterly Rock in near-silence. Jaime wondered what that said about his new wife, if her idealized man was Natty Bumppo, superlative hunter and marksman and tracker and fighter and all-round perfect man. Jaime was… none of those things. His mood, buoyed earlier by Brienne's unwitting revelation that she wanted him, lowered a bit.

Then they arrived at the familial mansion, and it lowered a bit more, because his idiot cousin Lancel was still there.

"Thought you'd have scuttled off to Cersei by now," Jaime drawled as he entered the house. The place was deserted but for his cousin, none of the army of servants coming forward for the wagon's ribbons or to greet them with an offer to take their hats. "Are you the only one left?"

Lancel, keeping his distance for fear of Jaime hitting him— which was a strong possibility— gave a sullen nod. "The servants started leaving when you were arrested. The last one went yesterday."

"What about the mine? That still operational?"

Lancel shrugged. "I don't pay attention to that."

"You mean the thing that's kept you in suits and whores the past few years? Yes, why would you bother with that?"

Lancel was their most sycophantic relative, and one of the stupider ones, as well. He honestly seemed to think that the things he enjoyed, like food and clothing and a place to live, were just handed down from the heavens by the gods, without having to expend any effort to acquire them. Jaime had not enjoyed having to live with him the last few years, but his father had granted permission, and since the house officially still belonged to the mean old bastard, he'd had no choice but to grudgingly welcome his cousin to his bosom.

He faced Brienne, who was looking around in frank amazement at the 20-foot ceilings and silk wall coverings and ornate furniture and gilded gas sconces. Compared to her own modest home, he imagined it seemed a palace. No reason they couldn't bring a bit of the palace back to the E-Star, though.

"Let's see what we can scavenge from here for our own use," he said. She nodded. They turned their backs on Lancel, and began.

Featherbeds, sheets, blankets, pillows, rugs, curtains. Pots, pans, cutlery, utensils, dishes. A mantel clock, a plump armchair for Papa. They only stopped when the wagon was full to almost overflowing and Brienne laughingly insisted there'd be no room in the house for the people who lived in it. Jaime grinned back at her, feeling light and happy in a way that felt utterly foreign to him.

"We came here for your clothes, and ended up getting everything but," she said while pushing a hank of pale hair from her forehead.

It had come loose from her braid hours ago, distracting him with how it floated around her face, teasingly brushing her cheek and lips as he wanted to do. It was a bit baffling; not only was she immensely tall and strong of build, and her face was, er, not traditionally pretty, but she made no attempt to present herself as a woman, dressing in trousers and boots and shirt and waistcoat and even a man's hat.

And yet, he wanted her. Truly, genuinely wanted her. Liked her. Admired her. Respected her. A terrified flicker of hope, sparked to life the day before, kindled within him, just a little. He did not dare to let it flare out of control, not yet. But he could afford the sliver of his heart it would take to keep it burning, while he tried his best to be a good man, to be as close to Natty Bumppo as he could manage, so that just maybe she could come to like and perhaps even admire and respect him, too, one day.

While she went to lash everything in the wagon down with rope, Jaime returned to the house for the last time and dragged a massive trunk from the luggage room for his purposes. Back in his bedroom, folding everything haphazardly, he began to cram every garment he owned into it.

A faint thump alerted him to how Lancel had pushed open the door until it gently hit the wall. His cousin stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, arms crossed casually over his chest, apparently feeling brave since Jaime hadn't hit him yet.

"So that's the little woman," Lancel drawled. "Never got a chance to see her up close, before."

 _He must feel confident I won_ _'_ _t kill him for his little stunt at the trial,_ Jaime thought, his shoulders tightening. His hands clenched on the fistful of neck-cloths he was transferring from drawer to trunk. He did not answer, instead just continuing to pack.

Irked by his lack of response, Lancel unwisely kept talking.

"Are you going to have a _mariage blanc_?" he asked, his tone one of false innocence and interest as he strolled into the room. "Or will you actually be able to make yourself go through with bedding her?"

Jaime stood from where he'd been rummaging through his dresser and turned to stare at his cousin, trying to make sense of the stunningly rude words he'd spoken.

"At least you can just turn the lamp off," continued Lancel with a smirk, further emboldened. He gazed into the mirror, using his fingers to comb his golden curls in a rakish way, just-so. "All cats look the same in the dark, eh?"

He had the audacity to grin, as if he'd just uttered a hilarious little _bon mot,_ but then Lancel had fancied himself the American Oscar Wilde for several years by that point. He turned to face Jaime, smiling brightly.

"I never really understood the phrase 'a fate worse than death' before, but now, seeing the monstrosity you had to shackle yourself to—"

Jaime wasn't sure was happened, precisely. One moment he was standing there, stacking shirts in his trunk, and the next, Lancel was flying backward across the room, and Jaime's hand hurt.

 _Oh,_ he thought, _I must have punched him._ His cousin's words repeated in his head.

 _Leave the lamp off._ He followed after Lancel, who had staggered back against the wall. Crimson welled from his split lip.

 _A fate worse than death._ Taking him by the neck-cloth, Jaime punched him again. Lancel's nose burst in a spray of blood when Jaime's fist connected.

 _Had to shackle yourself to._ Lancel started sagging toward the ground. Jaime slugged him in the belly, so hard that he had to dance out of range when Lancel reflexively gagged.

 _Monstrosity_. When his cousin bent over, arms crossed around his middle, Jaime slammed him in the back with his elbow, sending him to his knees.

Natty Bumppo might have him outclassed in most ways, but Jaime would bet money he could outdo the man in sucker punches.

"Jaime," Lancel panted, falling over onto his side, curled up like a bean. Blood oozed from his nose. Spittle lingered at the corner of his mouth.

"It's not really your fault," Jaime began conversationally, shaking his sore hand, "since as a Lannister you don't really have any concept of things like goodness and decency. So I've gone easy on you this once."

"That was easy?" Lancel wheezed.

"That was nothing compared to the beating I'll give you if you ever again speak of my wife that way," Jaime told him, his voice glacial in a way only a child of Tywin Lannister could manage. He recalled Arya Stark's scathing condemnation of his twin. "Brienne is worth a hundred of Cersei."

He grabbed Lancel by the lapels of his waistcoat and hauled him to his feet, then shouldered the door the rest of the way open. He meant to toss his cousin out of the room, but Brienne was standing there, looking as shocked as a person could be. Somehow, impossibly, her eyes widened even further at the sight of Lancel's busted face.

"If you would step aside, my dear?" Jaime said, and Brienne moved with alacrity. He gave Lancel an ungentle shove down the hallway. "Since you are so loyal to Cersei, I suggest you join her."

"I don't know where she is!" Lancel protested.

"Sounds like it'll take you a while to find her, then. Best get started early. Be ready to go in ten minutes. We'll drop you off in town."

With a last glare of disbelief and thwarted fury, Lancel hobbled away, practically falling into his room at the far end of the hallway. Jaime went back into his bedroom and continued packing, or at least tried to, but his hand was still smarting. He prodded at it with his other hand and then laughed.

"Do you know," he said, grinning at her, "I think I might have broken something."

He glanced up from it to Brienne, who had yet to speak, and was still staring at him. Slowly, she reached out for his hand, and he gave it over to her. Her own hands were warm, and more gentle than one might think, for their size. She ran her fingertips over first his palm, then the back of his hand, until she found the affected spot.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"About whaa _at the fuck_!" he ended up shouting, because Brienne popped something back into place and it hurt like a sonofabitch.

"Not broken. Just out of place. Should be better now, but sore for a while." She looked around the room while Jaime pulled his injured hand close to his chest, cradling it tenderly and watching her with suspicion. She went to his bed and whipped back the velvet coverlet, then stripped the top sheet from the bed. She folded and folded it until it was about six inches wide, but thick, then came back to him.

"Hand," she said, holding hers out, sighing when he squinted at her in apprehension. "We have to bind it so it gets better, not worse. You don't want to lose use of it, do you?"

Grumbling, he relinquished it to her, and she wrapped the folded sheet around so many times his hand ended up looking like a huge cotton boll, but with his fingers sticking out.

"When we get home— I mean, back to the E-Star," she corrected clumsily, "I'll figure out something to keep it immobilized for a few days. Some sort of splint."

"You can call it 'home'," Jaime said quietly. "It's my home, now, too." He looked around his bedroom, at the deep red damask wallpaper and tasseled velvet drapes, the bed's deeply-carved headboard and the elegant lines and curves of the furniture. He was turning his back on all of this to go live with Brienne on her humble little ranch, and he knew she was embarrassed about it.

"Brienne," he said, "don't you realize that we could all just move in here, if I wanted to stay? We wouldn't have to worry about adding a room on for Tommen, or the doorways being wide enough for Papa's chair, or— or anything. If I wanted to keep living like this, I could. We all could."

He waved his hand around to indicate their opulent surroundings, forgetting it was injured and wincing when it moved in ways it shouldn't. Brienne frowned and pulled the pillowcase from a pillow, ripping open the seam with one easy motion.

"Then… why not?" she asked as she folded the square of linen into a triangle, then knotted the ends together to make a sling.

"I don't want Myrcella and Tommen to grow up to be like Cersei and Tyrion and myself," he replied, letting her put him into the sling to her satisfaction, amused by how easily she was touching and moving his arm. _Not too tense now, are you?_ he thought with pleasure, wanting her to keep doing it.

"We had all of this, when we were children. We came to think we deserved it, had no appreciation for the work and money it took. Didn't appreciate it. And we became horrible adults, Brienne, selfish and shallow and cruel."

She blinked those eyes at him, then shook her head, just a little at first, and then harder. "No," she said firmly. "I don't know about your sister or brother, but you're not those things. You're not horrible."

"Wench, are you warming up to me at last?" he asked in exaggerated tones, but his heart was beating faster. How was it that Jaime Lannister was affected by the faint praise of being 'not horrible'? "I knew you couldn't resist me forever."

"You're still annoying," she said. "You don't take anything seriously, you crack jokes— _bad_ ones— at the worst possible times. You tease me, you push me to do things I don't want to do. And…" She looked down the hall to where Lancel had collapsed into his room. "You seem to have a hair-trigger temper, and no problem resorting to violence when angry."

Jaime's pleasure at her half-assed compliment was fading quickly. "Guilty on all counts," he admitted, gaze downcast at the shiny-polished floor.

"But," Brienne continued thoughtfully, "you're also…"

He looked up at her, eyes wide. _Why did she stop?_ He wanted to hear good things about himself, after hearing all the bad. "I'm also what?"

She looked back at him, seeming indecisive, as if she couldn't quite bring herself to admit something.

"You're loving, and strong, and brave. You're a good man," she said at last. "Or at least, I think you're capable of being one. You just need some practice."

While his head was whirling in the wake of that, Brienne then shocked him further by taking his bandaged, be-slinged hand in her big capable ones, bent down, and pressed a kiss to it.

"We always kiss it better," she mumbled, two waves of red surging up either side of her throat to her cheeks. "Family tradition."

There were two inches of linen between his hand and her lips, but Jaime could have sworn he felt the touch burn through the cloth right down to his skin.

 _Again_ , he wanted to say, to beg. _More. I need so much more._ More kindness, more gentleness, more affection. _More_. He felt like he was starving just for someone to touch him. It had been over ten years since he'd last been with a woman— Cersei— and she'd never been a demonstrative woman, always rushing through sex like it was a task to be gotten over with for the day, never permitting any lingering caresses or slow, satisfied kisses afterward as Jaime longed for. Brienne had treated him more kindly in just the two days of their marriage than Cersei had in the twenty-five years they'd been lovers. In the thirty-five years they'd been alive, perhaps.

"Family tradition," he repeated hoarsely. "Are you done tying down the wagon?" She nodded. "Let me finish packing my things, and then we can get the hell out of here."

"I'll help," Brienne offered, "since you're one-handed now."

Together, they made short work of it, and soon his trunk was so full he had to sit on it so Brienne could buckle its leather straps. They'd gathered up all his toiletries, too, and Jaime had seen her sneak a discreet sniff at the soap and then smile. He'd decided then and there that she'd always have nice soap to use instead of that harsh lye cube that lathered about as well as a brick. He wanted her to smile like that at everything, and if he had the means to make it possible, he would.

He grabbed one trunk handle, she grabbed the other, and they hauled it downstairs. Jaime kicked at Lancel's door as they passed.

"Time's up!" he sang out. "We're leaving!"

From the study, Jaime took a thick stack of cash notes from the fire-proof safe behind the life-sized portrait of Tywin staring with haughty disdain at the world. He crammed the cash into a big satchel filled with the ledgers and files he needed to run the mines. While he was thus occupied, Brienne emptied the barn of its horseflesh, tying the carriage team and Jaime's riding mount, Honor, to the back of the wagon to follow behind.

Lancel trudged from the house lugging a bulging carpetbag. He tried to toss it onto the wagon bed but staggered a bit with its weight. Brienne studied his face: nose hugely swollen, lips crusted with blood, and massive bruises spreading across his face, contrasting gruesomely with his golden hair and skin. Then, to Jaime's amazement— though really, at this point, he had to stop being amazed when she did things no other person in the world would do— she took the bag from Lancel and chucked it easily on top of the mound of items in the wagon, then took his elbow and helped him clamber up after it.

He stared at her, then at Jaime, his expression shifting from resentment to bafflement.

"She's… nice." Jaime shrugged, then grinned meanly. " _I_ _'_ _d_ have left you here."

"Maybe I'll leave _you_ here," Brienne said tartly.

"You'd miss me," he countered, hopping up to sit beside her on the buckboard, and marveled at how red climbed up her neck. In anger? No, she looked… embarrassed.

 _Aha_ , he thought with satisfaction. It lacked the smugness he'd felt in his first life, before his arrest, to know a woman was attracted to him. Jaime, in his second life now, was just thrilled that his shy, skittish wife actually might like him. _I_ _'_ _m loving and strong and brave,_ he thought in wonder. _Someone really should have told me before now._

Despite their earlier transfer of the task, with Jaime's hand injured Brienne was better suited to driving them. The ride to town was accomplished in under a half-hour, and soon Brienne pulled up to the hotel before turning in her seat to face Lancel.

"Too late for a train now," she told him. "Stay here tonight, leave tomorrow."

"But where should I go?" Lancel asked her, a hint of a whine in his voice.

"Wherever liars go." She shrugged. "Wherever you need to go, to live with your conscience."

He stared at her, then looked to Jaime in disbelief.

Jaime, for his part, felt like cheering and maybe, just a little, like crying. She believed him. She trusted him. She had _defended_ him.

"You heard the woman," he managed to say around the lump in his throat. He climbed down, peeled a few bills off the wad of cash in the satchel, and handed them to his cousin. "That'll get you to San Francisco. Throw yourself on my father's mercy. Maybe he'll take you in."

Lancel took the money and started to walk away, but Jaime caught his arm.

"And Lancel," he added, his voice low, "don't come back to Kingsland."

Wide-eyed, his cousin nodded, jerking his arm free and hurrying into the hotel.

"I should send a telegram to my father," Jaime said.

"I should get the mail." She got down from the wagon, and together they went to the post office.

Mr. Tarly was not there, happily, but Sam was, and his chubby countenance lit up at their arrival.

"Miss Brienne!" exclaimed Sam the moment he saw them. Then his face fell. " _Miz_ Brienne." Pause. "Mrs. Lannister?"

"Just Brienne, Sam," she said patiently, going to the E-Star's mail cubby.

"How are you… doing?" Sam asked her, darting a glance to where Jaime stood, less-than-patiently. Sam's placid brown gaze— rather cowlike, Jaime thought uncharitably— darted over his sling and bandage. "What a surprise, how things ended up!"

Brienne was quiet for a long moment, expressionless, and Jaime knew she was considering how to respond.

"It all worked out for the best," she said at last. "Miss Daenerys is far better suited to Jon than I am. I think they'll be happy together, eventually."

"So will we," Jaime said, without thinking.

She looked at him, her eyes big and somehow dark and bright at the same time, pulling him toward her like a compass pointing to true north. "We will?"

"Yes." He smiled at her, very certain. He was only two steps away, then just one. "I've decided."

"Is that right?" She smiled back, looking amused and young and so sweet, just then, that he had to kiss her, so he did.

It was over in an instant, just a fleeting press of lips, and when it was done she blinked at him— in what was also a rather cowlike fashion, he thought— before taking a step back.

"He's decided," she told Sam, sounding a bit breathless. "I guess that's settled, then."

Sam, for his part, was gaping at them like a lightly-stunned haddock.

"Guess it is," he agreed, looking delighted. Jaime realized he was in the presence of an inveterate gossip and resigned himself to have the news of their kiss spread hither and yon across the county— possibly across all of Central Texas— by the end of the week.

By the look of panic on Brienne's face, she knew it, too.

"I'll go wait with the wagon," she said, and fled.

"Telegram blank, please," Jaime said absently, watching her go. He went to grasp a pencil but his bandage would not permit it, so Sam offered to write what Jaime dictated.

WAS ON TRIAL FOR MURDER STOP GOT MARRIED INSTEAD STOP MYRCELLA AND TOMMEN ARE SAFE WITH ME STOP EXPECT LANCEL STOP IF YOU SEE CERSEI TELL HER TO ROT IN HELL STOP

Jaime reread it and nodded with satisfaction, ignoring Sam's scandalized expression over the rude content.

"More polite than I'd like, but it'll have to do," he said with a smirk, and sauntered out to join his wife.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: Thanks for your reviews, glad you're enjoying the story :)**

* * *

Sansa V

With life back to normal— except that Jon no longer lived with them _,_ and went home to his new wife at the end of the day— Sansa fell back into her normal routine, helping her mother do whatever was needed around the house, and then going to town in the afternoon to pick up the mail and do any marketing they needed. Kingsland was still abuzz about the trials and near-executions, and it seemed she was stopped every other step by a Nosy Parker with a question about Jon and Daenerys.

Some of the more desperate ones, knowing Brienne was Sansa's friend, would ply her with queries about her and her rakish new husband, hoping for some salacious details… or else hoping to stir up drama by mentioning how _upset_ poor Sansa must be at Brienne's treachery and betrayal. None of them believed Sansa when she insisted she wasn't upset at all, since Jon had been spared execution in the end, and Brienne's rationale made perfect sense. Sansa tried to be mannerly about it, but by the time she made it from where she tied up Lady on one end of town to the post office on the other end, she was ready to say something rude.

Oh, who was she trying to fool? She'd never say anything rude to anyone. The very idea gave her goosebumps. But… how wonderful it would be, to be rude to someone! And more wonderful still to not care when they were rude back. Rudeness put her in mind of Sheriff Clegane, who seemed to take a certain glee in it, and for a moment she envied him the freedom.

She had not seen him in days. For a while, he had been a near-constant presence in her life, and it felt a bit odd for him to have so abruptly departed it. Their last interactions had not been friendly. She still felt that peculiar sense of disappointment in him, and then was disappointed in herself for feeling it. Perhaps Arya was right, and she truly was a silly girl who made very little sense.

The post office had a front room, shaped like an L, and a back room nestled into the L's crook, with a big plate-glass window showing through between the two. Mr. Tarly was there at the post office counter when she entered, glowering as usual, so she was only able to wave and smile at Sam through the window, where he was tappity-tapping away at his telegraph machine. He waved back cheerily. She made her way to the short arm of the L, where there were floor-to-ceiling cubbies for each family's mail to be slotted.

Sansa removed everything from the Northpoint's cubby and riffled through the sheaf of envelopes, curious to see if Uncle Benjen had yet responded to her last letter. As she did, she saw something addressed to her. Not even her full name, just 'Sansa' slashing across it in masculine-shaped letters, and it wasn't even an envelope, just a folded piece of paper. _Curious_.

She unfolded it, and in the same bold hand was written,

 _cottonwood by the river - inside the knothole 5 feet up_

A shiver of apprehension went through her; she'd spent too much time with Joffrey to enjoy mysteries. Experience had taught her that surprises were to be feared, not anticipated. Her first impulse was to simply ignore it, and her hand hovered over the waste bin for a few seconds, ready to drop it in.

But… what if it weren't something bad? What if it were something good, that a kind person had done, and she ignored it? The idea of some well-meant token or gift languishing in a knothole forever made her feel cruel.

She would go look, Sansa decided as she left the post office and walked back toward Lady. She was unable to keep from re-reading the note over and over as she went, puzzling over it, and thus was not looking where she was going when she walked right into a brick wall. Or, no, it was just Sheriff Clegane, coming out of the mercantile. She stumbled back in alarm.

"Easy, girl," he growled, hands on her upper arms as he steadied her.

"Of course, I'm so sorry—" she babbled in embarrassment.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked gruffly.

"No," Sansa replied. "Did _I_ hurt _you_?"

She hadn't thought it was funny— she could have trod on his foot, or knocked her head against him— but he seemed to think it comical, because he actually laughed at the idea. He had a nice deep laugh, but she didn't like being the brunt of some joke only he found funny.

"I'm happy to have amused you," she said with arctic politeness, and his laughter faded immediately. She glanced pointedly down at where his huge hands still held her arms before meeting his gaze once more. He looked surprised, and released her, opening his mouth to say something.

Sansa did not wait for him to speak, sweeping past him with her chin so high she nearly couldn't see where she was going. He was not only rude, as she'd contemplated earlier, he was also a boor, and unkind. She must have been delusional, when everything was happening, to take comfort from his presence or think there was anything redeemable about him.

But Sansa still could feel his gaze on her as she walked away, and as she gingerly mounted Lady from the mounting block, and as she rode away. It made her angrier and angrier, and by the time she arrived at the cottonwood by the river, she was ready to set fire to the darned thing and ride away. But no, someone had gone to all the trouble of doing this, and now she had gone to the trouble of coming out here when she was due back home, so she might as well go through with it.

She blew out a breath, contemplating her options, because if she dismounted, she'd have no way to get back up, her rib still too tender to permit her to hoist herself up from the ground without a block. Then, like a candle flickering to life over her head, she realized that that very reason was why whatever-it-was had been put in the knothole five feet off the ground, when there was a similar one three feet up, and another by the very base. She could easily reach the highest one from horseback.

 _Oh,_ she thought. _That was very considerate._

Sansa nudged Lady close to the tree; the mare, ever obliging, sidled right over and waited patiently while her mistress leaned over and tried to look inside the knothole, not relishing the idea of thrusting her hand into darkness, not knowing what was within. She couldn't see a thing, however, so she would have to either leave whatever-it-was there, or take a chance on there not being a wasp nest or something equally horrible inside.

Cautiously, ready to withdraw and ride away (probably shrieking in terror) at the first hint of buzzing, Sansa slipped her hand inside the knothole. It was not very deep, and right away she touched something, a small longish roundish bundle wrapped in paper and tied with string, easily fitting into the circle of her fingers. Upon pulling it out, she saw it was a regular sheet of paper, and it had indeed been wrapped around what she at first thought were slim pencils.

But when Sansa untied the string, she found a quantity of raven feathers, jet-black, tied together at the base with the same plain string that had fastened the sheet of paper around them. When she held them there, at the base, they fell open and arced out in a glossy, shimmering, iridescent bouquet. It was the loveliest thing she'd ever been given. Who would present her with such a thing? And why?

The paper it had come in had been folded once in half before being wrapped around the bouquet. Sansa unfolded it, and found another line of the same script.

 _Your feathers are more beautiful_

 _but I thought you would like these anyway._

Sansa stared at the note, then at the feathers, then back at the note. Then back at the bouquet. Then at the note again. She came to the same conclusion each and every time: it appeared she had a secret admirer.

Had she been twelve, or even Arya's age, she would have been near to swooning in delight. But she was eighteen now, a grown woman, and she had been through hell with Joffrey the past year. She could barely muster up a flicker of excitement about it, feeling more weary than anything else at the prospect of being the recipient of surreptitious gifts. Was she expected, now, to check this tree on a regular basis? Would the gifter be hurt if she did not? It was too much obligation. Sansa felt _exhausted_ and she hadn't even done anything yet.

Still… the feathers were beautiful, and it was a novel and nice idea to put them in a bouquet as the person had. Their compliment was very kind— though unrealistic— and she felt a duty to respond in some way, if only to thank him. Or her? It was possible, of course, for her admirer to be female, but unusual… and that handwriting was definitely male. She could feel the masculine energy of the person with every blotchy stroke of the pen.

Sansa touched her heels to Lady's sides; with a gentle tug on the reins, she turned the horse toward the Northpoint. There was still work to do at home; Arya and the boys would be back from school at any moment, and she wanted to see Jon before he left for the Triple D and Daenerys for the evening.

She made it back, placing Lady in the care of a ranch hand, just as the wagon hurtled up the drive, this time with Bran at the ribbons. The specter of Arya finding out about the notes and the feathers struck fear into Sansa's heart, and she hurried into the house to find a secure place to hide them. Inside her bedroom, the door securely closed, she decided that under her laciest pantalettes would be the best spot, since Arya tended to avoid anything girly during her regular combing through Sansa's belongings for items of interest. Sansa dearly hoped Arya would not overcome her squeamishness and decide to forge ahead through the horrors of frilly lingerie.

Sansa excused herself to her room for the night as soon as she could without arousing suspicion. She took out the bouquet of feathers and, sitting in bed, stared at it, wondering at her next steps— what to do? She decided that, at the very least, thanks were in order, so on her way to town for the mail the next day, she went to the cottonwood tree and placed a slip of paper with only the words "thank you" written on it.

But if she had hoped for some other communication, she was doomed to disappointment, because there was no note in their mail cubby that day, nor the next, nor the next.

* * *

Jon VII

For the fifth day in a row, Jon reined Ghost to a stop at the Triple D stable. It was still odd-feeling, at the end of the work day, to leave the Northpoint and head southeast past town to his new home. And his new wife.

 _Wife_. The concept was just as foreign, still felt as poorly-fitted, as the baffling day it had happened. Jon was _married_. And to a woman who confused him with almost every word that came out of her mouth. She could be fierce or quiet, serious or laughing, passionate or reticent; he could never tell what she would be from one moment to the next, and it could change on the drop of a hat. It didn't bother Jon, however, because no matter what mood she was in, she was never anything other than pleasant and courteous to him, and true to her word, receptive any time he indicated he wanted her.

She worked morning, noon, and night, having no notion of quitting for the day unless she was exhausted, and after Jon returned from the Northpoint and bathed and they had dinner together, she went right back into the library to work some more. He had taken to spending his evenings in there, reading until it was time for bed. Jon decided that he was going to get her to stop working earlier. If he had to haul her to bed right after dinner, so be it.

 _Ah, the sacrifices one had to make,_ he thought wryly as he handed Ghost's reins to a hand. With a last affectionate rub to the horse's nose, he headed to the big house. This ranch— estate, rather— was an odd place, looking like a rustic farm one might expect in a fairy tail, not in the middle of Texas. It was airy and cool, however, thanks to the multitude of tall windows usually thrown open, and that was what mattered the most to him.

Jon ducked out of the late afternoon sun and under the long, curving pergola toward the main part of the house. As he neared it, he heard voices floating from the library's open windows.

"Jorah," said Dany in a tone of welcome. "How did the auction go? Are we now the proud owner of two more champion bulls? I'm eager to see the quality of their offspring."

 _Jorah_ _…_ _Mormont_? Jon slowed to a stop. Jorah had been Ned's foreman years ago, before his embezzling ways had gotten him fired and ostracized from town. Apparently, he'd found eventual safe harbor on the Triple D after Ned replaced him with Jory.

"We are, yes," Jorah answered. He sounded distracted, like he wanted to talk about something besides the bulls. "I've just heard the craziest thing," he continued, a laugh in his voice, but with a nervous undertone. "Missandei just told me that you married someone while I was in Houston. A complete stranger, no less!"

"I wouldn't say he's a _complete_ stranger," replied Dany. "I knew his father, and we had met on two prior occasions."

A short silence, charged with shock, followed before Jorah replied. "It's _true_? You got married while I was away?"

"I was not aware your presence was required for such a thing." Dany's voice was a shade cooler.

"I have always hoped you would find it instrumental," Jorah said with a touch of asperity. "You have to know that I've loved you since the moment we met, Miss Daenerys."

"It's Mrs. Snow, now," she said gently. It was clear she was trying to maintain the distance she had fought to establish between herself and this man, whoever he was.

"You married Ned Stark's bastard?" Jorah almost shouted.

"Oh, is that all there is to him?" Dany asked with exquisitely feigned innocence. "I thought he was a handsome, intelligent young man from an excellent family, whose father I respected and admired, and who has impressed me with his honesty and decency. Is his birth the only thing wrong with him? Would your objections be silenced if I had married his brother, instead?"

"My objection isn't his birth," he said. "It's that—"

He stopped short. There was a short, tense silence.

"It's that he isn't _you_ ," Dany finished quietly. "Jorah, stop looking at me with such a wounded expression. I have made no secret that I would never return your love or be your wife. Any expectations you have built up, you have done without encouragement."

Another silence fell.

"I'm sorry you're in pain, Jorah," she said at last. "It was never my intention to hurt you."

"I know," he said miserably. He sounded as if his heart were breaking. "Can you… will you at least tell me why you did not consider me? You've never scorned me for my past sins. You even employed me, giving me a second chance, when no one else would."

"If only you'd just accept what I say, Jorah," Dany murmured. "It would spare you this indignity."

"Please!"

Jon had heard enough. He hastened inside and entered the library just as Dany was opening her mouth to reply.

"Dany," he greeted her, his voice warm and intimate, as a husband's ought to be.

"Jon," she said, smiling up at him, looking pleased— and a bit thankful— to see him. "I think you may already know my foreman, Jorah Mormont?"

"I do." He went to Jorah, hand out. "Good to see you here, I've wanted to talk to you."

"You have?" said Jorah, looking bemused as they shook hands.

"You have?" said Dany, just as puzzled.

Jon nodded firmly. "I should take over management of the Triple D, don't you think, Dany? I've worked a ranch since I could walk, and you're busy enough with your other concerns." He moved to his wife's side and put an arm around her waist, gently pulling her against him as he addressed Jorah. "Dany trusts you, I'm sure, to run everything, so I won't interfere unless you need guidance or permission, but from now on, you'll report to me instead of Dany."

In the circle of his arm, she was stiff as a plank. He knew he was overstepping the terms of their agreement, but hoped she'd see how he was trying to give her a buffer between herself and this man who clearly made her uncomfortable.

"That's a wonderful idea," she said at last, and looked up at him with an expression that was half-relieved, half-irked. "Thank you."

Jorah looked like he'd be ill at any moment. Jon felt a pang of regret for the poor sap, but he couldn't let Jorah continue to sniff around Dany's skirts and importune her with sob stories of his unrequited love. Plus, if Jon managed the ranch, perhaps she'd stop working earlier in the evening…

"Yes," Jorah said at last, his voice faint.

"It's late," said Jon. "Why not get some supper and have an early night? Then come have breakfast with me in the morning, you can give me a briefing of what to expect with the Triple D."

Jorah gave a wretched nod, his hands clutching his hat so hard the brim was completely mangled. "I'll… see you tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow," Jon confirmed as the other man shuffled from the room, head low, shoulders bowed in defeat.

The moment he was gone, Dany turned to him, a light in her eyes he'd never seen before, like she was about to give him the set-down on his life. Before she could, he buried his hands in her hair and tilted her face up for his mouth. He hadn't felt particularly ferocious all day, but to come home and find Jorah clinging to Dany had stirred something in him.

"Shout at me later," he told him when they separated. Her lips were red and swollen from his kiss, and she was panting a little. "I want you now."

" _Right_ now?"

"Right now." He took her by the shoulders and turned her around. "Go upstairs and get your clothes off. I'll meet you there in a minute."

She gave him a curious glance over her shoulder, but off she went. Jon tugged the bell-pull, and when Missandei appeared, he said, "From now on, Jorah reports to me, not my wife. If I'm not available, he'll have to wait until I am."

She nodded her understanding.

"Hold dinner until further notice," he continued. "We'll ring when we want it."

She didn't twitch a muscle, but he had the impression she was smiling at him, amused. He felt a little bashful, but didn't really care… his beautiful wife was waiting for him, naked.

"Yes, Mr. Jon," was all the housekeeper said.

She left for the kitchen, and he took the stairs two at a time. He gave a brief knock at the door before entering, and there she was, in the middle of their bedroom, her basque and skirts discarded in a silken lavender pool at her feet. All she wore were her pantalettes and corset.

"I thought you might like to take the last pieces off yourself," she told him with an amused smile, well aware how he enjoyed peeling away the last layers of fabric to reveal the most private parts of her.

"You thought right," he said, his voice raspy with desire. She had the most beautiful shape, full bosom and hips with a nipped-in little waist that didn't even need much help from the corset to achieve. He went to her and trailed his fingertips down the soft skin of her neck and shoulders, pushing the beribboned straps of her corset cover down her arms before lowering his mouth and placing open-mouthed kisses on her collarbones, the graceful wings of them tempting him beyond his endurance.

Dany's breath came faster, and her hands slid up his arms to his shoulders, holding on as if only he could keep her from sinking to the floor. He kissed her mouth again, tongue thrusting, and began working on the laces of her corset. When he finally got it undone and peeled it away, his hands went right to her breasts, squeezing and shaping them, the firm, round flesh a delightful weight and her hard nipples abrading his palms.

She was just as busy, unbuttoning his waistcoat and then shirt, pushing them off eagerly before running her hands all over his chest and back. Her fingers found his nipples and he hissed at the way sensation shot through him when she gave them a pinch. He kissed her deeper, harder, and slid his hands down her body and under the silk of her pantalettes, pushing them off as he cupped her shapely bottom and pulled her hips tight against his own.

He knew she felt his erection against her belly because she gave a little whimper into his mouth and pressed back against him, swaying from side to side to rub against him. Her hands were on his gun belt, now, but with numerous little forays a little further south to rub over his hard cock, teasing him until he felt almost mindless with need. Wanting it to go faster, he brushed her hands away and did the honors himself, toeing off his boots while kicking off his trousers and drawers, and then he was as bare as she.

"Let me taste you," he murmured against her lips. Her answering moan told him she would like nothing better, so he walked her back toward the bed, never releasing her from their kiss. When her legs hit the bed, Dany pulled away only as long as it took to shift backward across the mattress. Jon followed her on hands and knees, prowling like a cat. He lowered his mouth to her ankle and dropped a kiss on it, moving up her leg to her shin, then thigh. He darted his tongue against the jut of her pelvis and she arched it, her legs beginning to part.

Jon scattered kisses across her belly, enjoying the plush give of it under his lips, before starting to head down. Dany's breaths were coming in gasps before he even reached her center, her hips rolling in remembered ecstasy, and when he finally lowered his mouth to her wet flesh, she flung back her head and cried out, sounding relieved, as if the only thing to alleviate her desire was his tongue slipping along her delicate folds and pressing into her.

She tasted sweeter, the further inside he licked. He only wished his tongue were longer so he could get to the very heart of her. Jon brushed the pad of his thumb over the hard button at the top of her slit, and fucked her with his tongue, and she _writhed_ , back bowed and head thrashing and legs curling. Her fingers threaded through his hair and she clutched at him, crying out over and over as she came, flexing hotly around his tongue.

Dany lay so still, when she was done, that he wondered if she'd fainted, but then her head moved a little, her eyelashes fluttered, her mouth parted for a breath.

Jon got off the bed and headed to the washstand, intending a quick scrub-down after his hard day's work before coupling with her. He poured cool water into the basin, and lathered up a flannel. He scrubbed and rinsed, and was just reaching for a towel to dry off when the door crashed open to reveal someone who looked just like his wife, only male: a little taller than Jon himself, he was slender and delicately handsome, with Dany's coloring. He wore a fierce scowl that creased his forehead deeply.

 _Viserys,_ Jon thought.

Her brother's fierce frown was replaced, momentarily, with an expression of poleaxed shock as he took in the scene before him: his sister, completely naked on her bed, and a strange man, equally bare, in the middle of the room. Dany gave an alarmed little scream and scurried back against the headboard, dragging the sheet with her for coverage.

"Aaaiiieeeeee!" Viserys shrieked, and flung himself at Jon…

…who sidestepped to evade him, then twisted and shoved him face-down onto the foot of the bed, pinning him there by an arm he yanked around the other man's back.

"Let me go," Viserys mumbled into the mattress. "I won't let you hurt Edward—"

 _Edward?_ Dany had said he often descended so far into his scholastic explorations that he forget he wasn't one of the historical figures he was studying.

"—so let him go, Roger!"

Jon puzzled over it, wracking his brains for possible identities, before hitting upon a former king of England. If Dany was Edward II, then Jon must be his lover, Roger Mortimer, which made Viserys… who, exactly?

Viserys was quiet for a few moments before speaking again, dragging himself back through the centuries to the present. "Dany?"

"Isabella, this is my husband, Jon Snow. Jon, my brother… Isabella of France." The look she shot Jon was wry. "I had hoped for a less fraught introduction between you."

"You have nothing to fear from me." Jon told Viserys, and released him. "I'd protect Dany… um… Edward… with my life."

Viserys slowly stood and stared, first at him, then at Dany. "But… you were supposed to marry _me_ , Edward. Not Roger."

"I thought I'd try something different this time… Isabella. You don't want me to have the same end as last time, do you?"

He paled. "No."

She gave him an encouraging smile. "So go on back to your own wing, everything is fine."

He frowned, suspicious, but in the end decided discretion was the better part of valor, and left. Dany slumped back against the pillows. Jon dried himself and returned to the bed, stretching himself out over the sheets. With her platinum curls tumbling, rumpled, over her shoulders and chest, her lips red as berries, and her skin still flushed and dewy from her release, she looked debauched. He was about to roll on top of her when she surprised him by doing that to him: before he knew it, he was looking up into her lovely face, his attention caught by her lively violet eyes. He couldn't help but give her a tiny grin.

"Thank you for not reacting poorly to Viserys," she told him.

Jon colored a bit at her gratitude. "Anyone can see he's not well," he muttered.

She began kissing down his throat to a small, tight nipple. "Still, it was kind."

Dany gave his nipple a little suck, and he arched his back, hardening further against her belly. She slid down his body more, and he parted his legs to give her a snug place to nestle into. She took his balls into her hands, and fluid beaded on the tip of his cock as his excitement mounted. Like a drop of honey, it began a slow trickle down his shaft. Dany trailed her tongue from base to tip to gather it, then took the swollen crest of his cock into her mouth and sucked as he groaned and his pelvis began to flex.

Soon Jon framed her face with his hands and lifted her mouth off him. "Come sit astride me," he said hoarsely.

"You didn't like it?" Dany said it lightly, but seemed a little worried.

"I loved it. That's the problem." He grasped her arms and dragged her back up his body until she straddled his hips. "But it's not likely to get you with child, and that's our primary goal, isn't it?"

"It _was_ ," Dany agreed as he coaxed her with gentle hands to raise up on her knees, then positioned his cock at her entrance. She sank down, taking him in a long, slow glide. "Before I had actually _done_ this. But now I know how good it feels." She shifted, took him deeper, and he felt the very tip of himself reach something within her that made her quiver. The knowledge that he was as deep inside her as could be reached sent a hot flush through him.

" _Dany_."

His hands at her waist guided her as she raised and dropped over him, setting a languid pace. Her body, primed from her earlier climax, warmed again quickly, and it took no time at all before she was trying to move faster on him, settling more heavily to take him deeper, but he wouldn't let her speed up.

"Slow," he crooned in response to her whimper of protest. "Trust me."

She paused for a moment, and Jon held his breath, wondering if she would be able to relinquish control of their pace to him. Finally, with a sigh, she let go. The knot of arousal in his stomach swelled, the threads of it loosening. Unable to chase her climax as she'd become accustomed, Dany could only moan as he worked himself in her at a leisurely pace, with a sweet edge of frustration and anticipation of what lay ahead.

When her crisis came, it made Dany cry out over and over, shaking on top of him. Under her, Jon bucked, spearing up into her, his grip hard on her waist, pulling her tight against him so he could grind himself deep. His own groans were guttural, wrung free of him, wracking him with pleasure.

When he released her at last, Dany slid bonelessly to the side and fell in a heap, panting. Jon lay there a few moments, feeling weak, sparks and glitter still flashing behind his closed eyelids. When strength returned to him, he moved her, rearranging her limbs from their exhausted sprawl to something more comfortable and ensuring her head was on a pillow. Then he drew the covers up over them, pressing his body against hers and curling his arm around her waist.

"Is this alright?" he said, his voice quiet. "If you want space—"

"It's fine," she replied, eyes closed, She placed both arms over the one he'd slung about her, one hand grasping his wrist. "It's good."

"Yes," he agreed sleepily, and rubbed his cheek against her forehead, feeling as if he were being pulled down into a nest of cotton wool. "It's good."


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: Thanks for your patience in waiting for this chapter, the holidays are tough for me for a few reasons so I just wasn't able to update until now. But... new year, new chapter. I hope to update more frequently from now on, but if I don't, please don't push me to hurry in your reviews, because it just vexes me.**

* * *

Jaime VI

"Thanks," said Pa. He lay back against the fat pillows Jaime and Brienne had pilfered from Casterly Rock. "Night."

"Good night," Jaime replied, smiling as he left.

It had been a week since their marriage, and while his new life was nowhere near where he might ever have expected it to be, Jaime had no complaints. He worked all day on the ranch with Brienne and Pod and the dogs, which he was prepared to swear were smarter than he was, and then after supper, while the others did small repairs, he did paperwork and accounting for the mine. It was exhausting, but at the end of the day, when he fell into bed, he had a feeling of satisfaction and pride that he'd never felt before.

Another feeling he'd never had before was his bafflement about how to go about seducing his wife. Always before, with Cersei, he'd longed for her, knew she longed for him, but being together was forbidden. Now, being together with Brienne was not only permitted, it was expected, and… apart from a few chaste pecks to the cheek, he hadn't touched her.

He _really_ wanted to touch her.

As the days passed, his respect and admiration for her had been growing and evolving into affection. And as that affection strengthened, Brienne's mannerisms and gestures became more and more endearing to him. He began noticing more and more about her body, things that began to tempt him unbearably. She forgot her hat constantly and the full brunt of the sun would bear down upon her, darkening her freckles; they looked like cinnamon sprinkled on cream, and he longed to connect their dots with the tip of his tongue. The flexure of the muscles in her forearms as she tossed hay bales around made him think of how she might grip and stroke his cock. The shouts she gave when herding the cattle from one pasture to another made him daydream about how he might go about making her shout like that in bed, what it would take to make her be so vocal about her pleasure.

He knew she was scared that he would be repelled by her face and body. And it was possible she did not feel attraction for him. Or, at least, not enough to overcome her misgivings. He did not know how to overcome her inhibitions, and he was beginning to feel a bit despairing of ever accomplishing it.

Jaime went into the room he shared with Brienne and stripped down to his drawers. He'd had a lot of letters to write for the mine, that night, and hadn't lingered in his bath to get himself off as usual. Seeing Brienne relaxed and happy, after dinner, smiling and talking with her father and Myrcella and Tommen, her eyes so vividly blue even in the dim lantern light, had had him in a state of half-arousal all evening, distracted and even a little irritable. He lay down beside her, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest with every breath.

They woke every morning with legs tangled, faces pressed against shoulders, arms wound around waists, clasping so tightly, as if they were terrified of losing each other as they slept. And then when Brienne realized what she was doing, how close they were, she would spring away as if caught stealing something precious.

Jaime recalled that morning, how warm she had been, how her breasts had felt pressed against his side. He'd willed her to tilt her face up to him, to welcome his kiss, to stroke her hand over his ribs. But she had only gasped in dismay and rolled away, laying very still for a few moments like she was gathering the strength to bear her embarrassment, before getting out of bed entirely.

But what if she had not? What if she'd stayed and done what he wanted? Jaime pushed down the covers to his waist, revealing his bare chest and belly. The moonlight streaming in the window threw the hills and valleys of his musculature into relief. He wondered if Brienne would find him pleasing to look at.

Cersei always had; he recalled the way his sister had watched him walk around the room nude, her eyes keen and hungry as she watched the flex of his thighs and ass. Or when she'd rode him, how her hands had traced over his torso, fingertips ticklish as she followed the grooves slashing from waist to groin. He wanted Brienne to find him pleasing, too. He had so little to give her but his looks. He hoped, rather desperately, that they would be enough to make up for all the other myriad ways he fell short.

He darted a look at her, but she was fast asleep, without indication she would wake any time soon. It made him feel brave enough to roll to his side, facing away from her, and shove his drawers down his thighs to bare himself.

Knowing she was so near made him even harder, and he wrapped his hand around his shaft and squeezed, barely stifling a moan at the welcome pressure and heat. His hand glided from base to tip before he loosened his grip and used his thumb to circle around the swollen head, smoothing around the drop of fluid that had beaded. It almost felt like a tongue swirling, and thinking of Brienne's mouth on him made Jaime bite down on his lip against the groan of pleasure that fought to escape.

He was starting to lose coordination as his arousal mounted. He gripped himself tighter, stroked harder, trying not to shake the bed though his hand moved with brutal speed and force as he came. Jaime clenched his teeth, was quiet, but couldn't keep from trembling as pleasure cascaded over him. When it ended, he lay there, gasping as silently as he could manage, for a long time, eyes closed in fear that he'd woken Brienne after all, but nary a peep came from her side of the bed. When he felt it was safe to get up, Jaime went to the washstand to soak a flannel and clean off his spend.

He looked down, his expression wry; it had gone everywhere, but Brienne had inspired him to it as nothing and no one else had in a long time.

He had just wiped his chest clean when the tiniest squeak of bedspring caught his attention. Jaime looked into the mirror and saw in its reflection that Brienne was awake. She touched a fingertip to a spot on the sheet, dampened by wetness— by his semen. He caught his breath, helpless but to watch as she swiped up a drop of it, stared at it, then put her finger to her mouth and licked at it with the tip of her tongue, kitten-like.

Jaime went rock-hard again. His hand clenched around the flannel so hard it released a stream of water down his torso and drenched his drawers. In the mirror, he saw Brienne flinch and hastily lay back down as she had before, closing her eyes and pretending sleep once more. He fought to steady his breathing and finished wiping his belly and thighs before pulling his drawers back up, willing his new erection to soften quickly. He tried to blot as best he could with the towel, but without much success.

Back in bed, drawers clinging unpleasantly, he felt his body's fatigue discouraging his arousal and tugging him toward the sweet oblivion of sleep. He had begun to despair that bringing himself off while his wife scorned him would be his fate, but… she was curious, at least. She was not as oblivious to him as he'd thought. Perhaps he could tempt her curiosity into giving him a chance? The prospect of being someone's lover, without shame or fear of discovery, to be able to make love without worrying about pregnancy— with the hope for it, in fact— filled him with yearning.

Brienne was a loving woman, he'd seen evidence of it many times already, in just the brief time they'd been married so far. If he was on his best behavior, perhaps she could even love him, too. He fell asleep with that idea held tight to his heart.

* * *

Brienne VI

Brienne came awake suddenly, as she had done every time Jaime slid into bed beside her after helping Pa get ready for bed. She had stopped tensing each time, however, and now lay there, peaceful and relaxed, eyes lightly closed, waiting for sleep to claim her once again.

It almost had when Brienne became aware that the bed was… moving. Just a little, and it was only because she was such a nervous wreck where Jaime was concerned that she noticed at all. She opened her eyes and thus commenced the most harrowing few minutes of her life, even more fraught with disaster than when she had stepped forward at the trial to claim herself a husband.

Because that husband, though presenting her with his back, was moving his hand in a rhythmic way that even she knew the purpose of, bringing himself off with a single-minded purpose that caused a scalding flush to cascade over her entire body.

To her immense shame, it was not a flush of horror, but of desire. She couldn't move, could scarcely breathe, as she watched him stroke himself, the sight inspiring lustful urges in the deepest recesses of her mind and body. Under the covers, her fingers twitched, wanting desperately to touch his sculpted chest and belly. Longing took hold of her, making the muscles in her thighs restlessly contract and release. She wanted to bury her face against his neck and inhale his scent, to take the meat of his shoulder between her teeth, to fill her hands with his ass and squeeze hard enough to bruise.

She ached for the weight of him on her body, for his hips spreading her legs wide open, for the drag of sweat-damp skin on her breasts and chest hair abrading her nipples. She thought of the rasp of his leg hair against the smoothness of her calves, his big hand palming her center, and felt a heated pulse of want roll through her.

Beside her, Jaime's body jerked hard, just once, and a tiny, stifled groan of pleasure escaped him. As he shook through his near-silent climax, Brienne lay frozen. She felt… ashamed, that her husband should have to so clandestinely pleasure himself because she refused to do her duty to him, but the old familiar dread of his reaction to her body, to the prospect of bedding her, quickly swallowed the shame…

…but not her burning curiosity. When Jaime got out of bed and went to the wash stand, she saw the gleam of moonlight on a spot of wetness on the sheet. A thrill went through her, and the wish to know what it was like. With a furtive glance in his direction, Brienne saw he was occupied in wiping a flannel over himself, and she darted out a finger to dab at the wetness. It was thick but watery, and smelled lightly of… bleach?

She licked it off her finger. It tasted bitter, salty, fading to a faint sweetness, a bit like… bread? Or maybe grapes? Before she could decide, Jaime splashed loudly and she startled, quickly returning to the position she'd held before he had risen from the bed. Closing her eyes, she fought to breathe normally instead of panting with excitement as she had begun doing at some point.

Brienne lay there, near to quivering, as she waited for Jaime to fall asleep. When she was sure he had, she rolled to her side, facing away from him, and let herself do what she'd never felt right doing before: she tugged her shirt up and slid her hand inside her drawers. She was unsurprised to find them drenched, as was the hair between her legs. Her outer folds were swollen and sensitive, and it was all she could do not to hiss with pleasure when she explored further and encountered her own heat and wetness. The tip of her finger glided up toward the bump at the top of her slit and she ground her teeth to remain silent against the streak of pleasure that made her entire body jolt.

 _How had she never done this before?_ she wondered, marveling at the physical delight spiraling through her, but she already knew the answer: no one else had inspired her to it, before. There had been something different in how she thought and felt about him, from the very beginning. His face, even weary and despairing, through the jail window; his lean, muscled body, even shackled during his trial. The feel of him, when she comforted him and he slept in her arms. The fury in his eyes and voice when he'd hit his stupid cousin for being cruel, in defense of _her_. The press of his lips against hers, so briefly, _too_ briefly, in the post office. She'd licked her lips countless times since then, searching for some hint of his flavor, but it had gone too swiftly, and there was nothing.

She had his flavor in her mouth now, though, and she wanted more of it.

The parade of memories in Brienne's mind's eye pushed her arousal higher and she buried her face in her pillow to muffle her pants. She began to think of him performing these lewd acts on her; instead of her hand between her thighs, it was his, the rough pad of his finger sending rills of sensation through her when it circled that bump. Oh, it was good, but there was something missing, some fullness, and with a tiny gasp, she realized she felt empty, that her body was longing for his to fill her.

Her sole glimpse of his… part… had been both fleeting and indistinct. It had been flaccid, just a column of flesh hanging from a patch of golden curls, but her mind provided the picture she needed, imagined it hard and long and thick and sliding into her. Brienne thrust a finger inside herself, then another, and bit down on her lip to keep from crying out in shocked pleasure. Yes, this was what she needed, but more, not just fingers, she needed Jaime there, inside her and moving, stroking into her, his beautiful face close to hers, his beautiful mouth kissing hers—

Brienne's head flung back as she came, her teeth clenched around the scream that wanted to burst free. _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime,_ she thought as rapture pulsed through her, sending heat and ecstasy down her limbs. It seemed to go on forever. Just when she was sliding down from one peak, another would crest and sweep her along. At long last, it faded, slowly, the memory of bliss lingering sweetly in how tired her muscles felt, muscles she'd never before realized she possessed. When she slipped her fingers free, they made a wet noise that made her flinch, anxious it might have drawn Jaime's attention, and she froze, listening. But after a few moments, when nothing happened, she relaxed… and then realized that, while a woman's pleasure might not be as messy a prospect as a man's, there was still some element of clean-up needed afterward, because her hand was drenched.

She rolled to her back and glanced at her husband. He appeared to be sleeping soundly, so she furtively got out of bed and went to the washstand where he had stood earlier. She quietly poured fresh water into the basin and plunged in her hands, making sure there was no trace of the musky fluid that had coated them, then patted her face with damp palms. The coolness of the water helped mitigate the fire in her blood, the impulse to wake Jaime and—

 _No._ She needed some sleep if she were to function the next day, and continuing to think that way would not make her able to rest. A pleasing lassitude was stealing over her in the wake of her climax, and she yawned as she returned to bed. She had a moment of sheer terror when he rolled toward her, his arm coming around her waist and his head resting on her shoulder, but he only mumbled something incoherent and buried his face against her shoulder.

With him asleep, he wouldn't notice if she… held him in return, would he? She slid her arm, cautiously, until it was under and around him. He mumbled again and shifted closer, until he was pressed all along her. When he settled down again, she brought her other hand up to clasp his forearm, so lightly. The golden hair dusting his warm flesh was a soft rasp against her fingertips, and she let them dance over him, just once, to know how it felt.

She couldn't bear to reveal her desires to him when he was awake, but when he was asleep? Unaware of what she was doing? Unable to be repulsed by her homely face and unfeminine figure? She might be brave enough to permit herself at least this much closeness. Slowly, her muscles unwound and she drifted off as languor stole over her.

* * *

Sansa VI

It had been a full week since Sansa had received the bouquet of raven's feathers, and she had given up on receiving anything else, deciding it was just a single moment's whim on the part of her admirer. _If_ it had been an admirer at all— more likely, it was just someone who wanted to be nice, or perhaps a friend wanting to make her feel better after a horrible week of loss and pain.

But when she collected the mail, there was another sheet of paper with her name on it in the familiar hand. Her hand gave a tremor of excitement as she withdrew and unfolded it.

 _you_ _'re welcome - go look again_

She bit her lip to stifle the smile that spread across her face, but it didn't work, not at all. She beamed down at the paper, then folded it back up with care and tucked it into her reticule. She paid no more attention to where she was going this time than she had the other, and very nearly barreled into Sheriff Clegane yet again, but she was feeling much more nimble by then, and neatly dodged him, bestowing a smile in his direction— to his confusion— before carrying on toward Lady and setting off for the cottonwood.

Inside the knothole this time was another paper-wrapped bundle tied with string, and this time it held a plait of sweetgrass. She held it up to her nose and inhaled its fragrance, marveling at the expense, because sweetgrass was not easily found and tended to be costly. Her admirer had either gone to great effort to locate it, or paid a considerable sum for it. She opened the paper and read:

 _This reminded me of you_

 _or maybe you reminded me of this._

 _Either way, you are far sweeter,_

 _the sweetest thing there is._

 _Well_. That certainly cleared up any ambiguity about the nature of this admirer's admiration: a friend trying to cheer her up, or a generally-nice person, would not write something so… ardent. Would they? She rode home slowly, conflicted and wondering how to proceed.

By the next morning, she knew what she had to do. She remained in her room all morning, saying she owed a letter to Uncle Benjen, but spent the time writing and re-writing what she hoped was a suitable note to her admirer.

 _Dear Ser,_

 _Please know that I very much appreciate your kind and generous gifts, but the sweetgrass is a bit too generous, and I cannot possibly accept it. A present of such worth creates expectations between both parties, and there can be no expectations between us while your identity is unknown to me._

 _If you wish to keep private the contents of the notes you leave at the post office, you must put them in a sealed envelope. I beg you to do so, because if there is ever a time when someone else from my family comes to fetch the mail, I will never hear the end of their teasing about having a secret admirer._

 _Are_ _you an admirer? Is it safe to call you that? Or have you just pitied the sad turn my life has taken lately, and wanted to lift my spirits a bit? Either way, thank you. My heart has been heavy for weeks because of recent events, which you surely are aware of, and it is cheering to know that somewhere out there, someone feels kindly about me._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Sansa Stark_

She sealed it in an envelope— _she_ was not going to risk it being read by a random passer-by, in the event it should fall from the cottonwood tree— and placed it in the knothole. She thought it would take another week before getting a response, but only two days later, there was another note in the Northpoint mail cubby with just her first name on it, obediently placed inside a sealed envelope. Sansa would be lying if she said she was not excited to read his response, and her hands trembled— just a little— as she opened it.

This time, there was just a little drawing of a tree. It was not a _good_ drawing, but good enough that she could tell it was meant to be the cottonwood, and on the lip of the knothole was perched a little bird. She smiled.

"That's nice to see," said Sam, and her head shot up in surprise.

"What? Sam? What?" she said, hurriedly folding the paper and jamming it back into its envelope.

Sam watched her with curiosity as she fumbled with it. "It's nice to see someone read a letter with happy news," he said. He was in just shirtsleeves and a waistcoat, obviously still in the middle of his work day. "Seems like most of the time all anyone gets is bad news. So I was pleased to see you smiling."

How in the world an old sour-puss like Randyll Tarly managed to rear such a gentle soul, Sansa would never know. She hoped fervently that his lady friend at the saloon genuinely cared for him and had not merely targeted him as an easy mark.

"Thank you, Sam," she replied, and beamed at him.

He seemed a bit dazed by the force of it, and his own faltered a little. "Ah, yes, well, alright! Good! Have a nice day! Tell Jon to come see me when he has a moment!"

"I will, Sam," she told him. "You as well."

At the cottonwood tree, she was both surprised and not surprised to withdraw a similar-feeling bundle from the knothole. Wrapped in the sheet of paper was same sweetgrass plait she had returned to its sender, who might well be just as stubborn as Sansa.

 _Dear Sansa,_

 _I_ _'m no ser, so don't bother calling me that. I have nothing else to spend my money on, and no expectations of anything from you. I like knowing you have something that used to be mine. I like picturing the feathers, and now this sweetgrass, in your hands. I just want to give you things. I want to give you everything._

' _Kindly' is the only weakest thing I feel about you, so it is safe to call me—_

 _Your Admirer_

Sansa sucked in a shocked breath. Had she thought her admirer sounded ardent before? The previous note paled in comparison to the raw emotion contained in this odd little missive, with the ink blotches all over it.

 _His pen must be old,_ she thought. _It needs a new nib, or the reservoir is leaky._ She could picture a man with rough hands, laboring to write, cursing under his breath every time more ink blemished the page. She lifted the sweetgrass to her nose and inhaled its scent, then turned Lady toward home. Did she dare trust the word of a stranger, that he would not feel her obligated to him for keeping his expensive gift? It seemed to mean a lot to him.

By the time she had reached the Northpoint, she had not only decided to keep the sweetgrass, but decided to give him a gift in return.

 _We_ _'ll be even, then,_ she thought with satisfaction. But what to give him? The perfect idea came to her when she popped her head into the study to greet Robb, and saw her father's wooden case of pens. Ned had been a bit of a collector of fountain pens, eventually amassing so many that he had begun giving away the ones he did not care too much for, as gifts to people he also did not care too much for.

Those he always kept in the lowest drawer of the pen case, so after supper Sansa snuck in and pulled it open and looked through the selection, exquisitely nervous that Robb or, gods forbid, Arya would barge in and find her at it. She picked through them until she found the perfect contender: tortoiseshell, gold clip and nib, its barrel thick and with overall heft good for a man's hand. She wondered why her father had not liked it, but thought he might approve of her wanting to reciprocate a kindness. Tucking it up her sleeve, she managed to abscond to her bedroom, where she spent the remainder of the evening contriving a way to wrap it, and wondering what to write back to him.

She decided to sew a little drawstring bag for it, out of a bit of velvet left over from last year's Sevenmas dress, worn to the dance held at the hotel, in the same ballroom where Jon had been tried and sentenced. She thought the velvet's tawny-gold color went nicely with the tortoiseshell. As for the letter, she pondered long into the night before finally setting down some words.

 _Dear Admirer,_

 _If I cannot call you_ _'ser' you leave me no choice but to address myself as you can see above. I am feeling very humbled and, honestly, undeserving of your attentions. What can possibly have inspired you to such efforts?_

 _Unfortunately, I am not much able to hold or even look at the beautiful things you have generously given me, for fear of being besieged with questions by my family. I wish I could come up with an explanation for having the feathers and the sweetgrass, so I could keep them out in the open and look at them all day long, instead of restricting my appreciation of them to when I can steal a few moments of privacy._

 _You have instilled in me the urge to give you something in return so, Dear Admirer, please accept this pen, as I have noticed yours is in dire need of replacement. I look forward to your next note being free of blots and smears, so I can enjoy your words unimpeded._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Sansa Stark_

She wrapped the page of her letter around the pen, then tucked both into the velvet bag, and on her way to town the next day for the mail, deposited it in the cottonwood tree, smiling like a fool the entire time.


	19. Chapter 19

Tyrion II

Tyrion was woken by the blare of the train whistle. He snuggled back into the seat, intending to fall back asleep, but Bronn's elbow in his shoulder kept that from happening.

"We're 'ere," said his companion, and stood.

Tyrion smacked his lips, withdrawing his flask from his breast pocket to hastily wet his throat, and hopped down from his seat. "Thank all seven gods," he said fervently, more than ready to end the torment of this interminable voyage.

He and Bronn made their way to the end of the car as the strain hissed and clanked. Through the doors open to the next car, he could see a porter hauling out his trunk and Bronn's carpet bag. The whistle screamed again, a warning that the train was to leave very soon. Tyrion hastened down the steps and his lip curled the moment he took a breath.

"I see ten years hasn't been long enough to improve the stink of horse shit," he drawled, looking around with contempt.

Kingsland was a little more built-up than it had been when he left, now boasting a second road perpendicular to Main Street, at the end of which squatted the train stop at which he and Bronn had just arrived. The buildings were just as ruthlessly well-kept as before— the Targaryens brooked no shabbiness in the places they rented out— and there seemed to be more traffic and pedestrians than he recalled the last time he'd had the misfortune to be there.

The town hadn't had the train stop, then, so he'd had to rent a carriage from Davos Seaborn's livery to bring him to Austin. From Austin he'd taken a train to Houston, and from Houston the first ship out of the city to anywhere else. It chanced to be Charleston. He'd never planned to go anywhere in the South, not when it was still struggling to recover from the so-called "Civil" War that had decimated it, and fully intended to make his way north from there. But something about the city, its age and grace, had appealed to him. Then he'd met Shae, recently arrived from New Orleans herself, and… well, he'd be there as long as she was.

Tyrion heaved a sigh of resignation and said, "Well, I suppose we ought to rent something from the livery to carry us up to the Rock." He glanced at their luggage, which the porter had just heaved out onto the dusty platform. "Think it'll be safe here until we get back with the carriage?"

Bronn squinted up the street. "Yeah. This place is so small, I can shoot anyone who goes near it."

The porter gave them a frightened glance and scuttled back into the train, which immediately pulled out with a piercing shriek. Bronn smirked. There was little he liked more than unnerving others.

They started walking. As they drew closer to town, Tyrion became aware of how they were drawing the attention of those around them. This was in no way new to him; as a dwarf, he was well-accustomed to being gawped at. Beside him, Bronn strolled unconcernedly, whistling with hands in pockets, looking as if he weren't surveying every single person in the vicinity and deciding how best to kill them should the need arise.

"Should ask if any telegrams 'ave come for yeh here," he said. "I'll see about a carriage."

"Good idea," said Tyrion, and headed for the post office. He hadn't gone three steps, however, when he nearly collided with someone almost twice his height: Sandor Clegane.

It had been Clegane's promotion to sheriff that had been the final straw, spurring Tyrion's absconding from Kingsland, a decade ago. Tyrion wasn't the most scrupulous person in the world— far from it, if he were being honest— but the contemptuous, shameless corruption Tywin had so blatantly put in place had repelled Tyrion from somewhere deep and fundamental within him. It was one thing to take advantage of others, if they weren't canny enough to protect themselves; quite another to rig the game. Lannisters didn't need to _cheat_ ; that was like saying they couldn't win without trickery, and Tyrion's pride smarted at the implication.

Clegane took one look at him and let out a booming laugh.

"You're a day late and a dollar short," the sheriff informed him with a gruesome smile, "if you're here to argue for your brother's trial."

"More like a week late," called a young man from the butcher's across the street, looking grisly in his blood-smeared apron, gore streaked up his arms.

Tyrion took a deep breath, both to keep his patience and mentally gird himself the answer to his next question. "Was he convicted? Did he swing?"

"Yes to the first, no to the second."

"Convicted, but not hanged?" _Not_ executed for murder? Either Texas was getting shockingly lax in its punitive measures— which Tyrion gravely doubted— or some other, quite bizarre, event had occurred.

"It's a long story." Clegane stopped, considered for a moment. "No, it's a short story, but an odd one. Best to hear it from the horse's mouth."

Tyrion's mouth flattened in irritation. Clegane had always enjoyed being cryptic, speaking in riddles like a damned sphinx, and it did not appear he had left that habit behind in the intervening decade.

Tyrion ducked into the post office, where he found that Randyll Tarly was still his usual dour self.

"No," he said flatly to Tyrion's inquiry. He alone of the shopkeepers of Kingsland practiced big-city ways of expressing no interest whatsoever in his patrons' private lives, and Tyrion liked it that way. "No telegrams have come through for you."

"I'd like to send one," he said, and Tarly thrust a blank slip at him with a stub of a pencil. Tyrion wrote out a brief, but pithy message.

HAVE ARRIVED IN KINGSLAND STOP JAIME CONVICTED BUT NOT EXECUTED STOP

He paused, wondering what else to say.

REPLY TO CONFIRM RECEIPT STOP FROM TYRION STOP

He handed it over, with the cost, and then touched his hat brim in thanks and stepped back outside to the boardwalk. Bronn ambled toward him from the direction of the livery. "Can't rent oos a team, but they can carry oos where we need to go."

As he spoke, a young man finished hitching a team to a disreputable-looking wagon and turned to wave at them. Tyrion sighed.

Clegane, still loitering about and, as ever entertained by the misfortune of others, chuckled. Then his expression changed, from lazy amusement to recollection. "I have something of your brother's."

Tyrion watched as he went back into the jail, rummaging through the big, battered desk positioned front and center, until he came up with a cheap little notebook.

"He'll want that back," said the sheriff, then smirked. "I won't bother telling you not to look, since I know your nose will be buried in it the moment you leave town."

"You flatter me," Tyrion said with a sniff, "to think I'd wait even that long."

He left the sheriff there, accepting a hand up to the wagon from Bronn. Their driver was directed back to the train stop, where Bronn and the boy stowed their luggage in the back of the wagon, and then they headed out of town.

He opened the notebook the moment they were in motion. The first two pages appeared to be a last will and testament, wherein all of Jaime's property and wealth was left equally to Myrcella and Tommen. Pages three and four were the same, except written in ink. It was signed, at the bottom, by Sandor Clegane and Jon Snow.

 _Gods have mercy,_ he thought, _Jaime must have been_ _very_ _close to dying_. However he'd managed to evade the noose, Tyrion was relieved it had come about.

His attention was snagged when their driver turned right out of town, toward the river, instead of left toward the hilly location of Casterly Rock and the Arryns' Mount Eyrie.

"Young man," Tyrion said, tapping him on the shoulder, "you're going in the wrong direction."

The boy squinted at him. "Nope," he said. "You want me to bring you to your brother, right?"

"…yes?"

"He's this way." He said it with the rock-solid conviction of someone who knew best and would not be moved no matter what he was told. Tyrion decided to let him have his way. Getting to the Rock an hour late wouldn't make much of a difference when it had taken him ten endless days to get there in the first place.

They crossed the bridge to the east side of the Colorado, where the Baratheon and Stark ranches were located. Tyrion wondered if Jaime had taken up residence at the Double B. It made a sort of sense: with Cersei absconded and Bobby dead, the children would need some sort of adult to parent them, and since Jaime was their _actual_ parent…

But at the T junction, where one would turn left to go to the Double B and Northpoint, the driver instead turned right. Tyrion paged through the files of his mind to think of a reason why. He asked the driver, but received a laconic, " 'Cuz your brother's this way," for his trouble. Tyrion gave up and decided to just enjoy the ride. The day was hot but clear, and the pastured cows and fields of bluebells presented a bucolic scene.

"Boring as fook," muttered Bronn. "Not a damned thing to do or see for miles."

"Couldn't agree more," Tyrion said, thinking with longing of the restaurants and theaters and museums and clubs and all the other bounties of civilization that the western frontier lacked. The thought of the saloon's offerings depressed his mood a bit, too, accustomed as he had become to a rather more sophisticated caliber of entertainment. Shae's coy smile appeared in his mind's eye, her slim fingers twitching up the hem of her negligée as she caught her plush bottom lip between her teeth…

The wagon's juddering to a stop pulled Tyrion's attention from his prurient musings, and he looked around to find they had arrived at a small, tidy ranch. A hand, flanked by two dogs, approached from the nearest corral, his forehead puckered in a curious frown. All three, hand and dogs, stared at him and Bronn as they descended.

"My driver insists Jaime Lannister is to be found here," Tyrion said to the hand. "Is that true?"

The hand nodded. "They're moving the bullocks today. Is it important or can it wait a few hours?"

Tyrion introduced himself, tamping back irritation. "Seeing as how I've come all the way from Charleston, I'd say it's important."

"Ah." The hand's placidity was unmoved by Tyrion's haughty revelation. _Must have experience dealing with impatient Lannisters,_ he thought, amused in spite of himself.

To the dog on his right, the hand said, "Frankie, find Jaime. Find Brienne."

The big black dog, almost as tall as Tyrion, dashed off in the direction of a distant field.

"Jack," the hand then said to the smaller dog, "find Tommen."

"Tommen's here?" Tyrion asked the hand. _Why was he not at the Double B?_

The young man came forward and helped the driver take the luggage off the wagon and haul it to the porch. "Myrcella's here, too," he said, then called into the house, "Myrcella!"

"Pod, I'm helping Pa eat his lunch," called a female voice from within.

"Won't take long," the hand— Pod, apparently— said back.

 _Something was off._ Why was his family on this little ranch? And who was this 'Pa' his niece was assisting to have lunch? The idea of a Lannister helping someone else to eat was mind-boggling. If a person couldn't feed themselves, they were assigned a servant to do it.

A girl appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dishcloth, shocking Tyrion with her appearance. Despite being dressed in a plain dress with an apron over top, she was the very image of Cersei in her mid-teens. But instead of the cunning meanness his sister had always exhibited, Myrcella's face was sweet and good-natured as she said, "Pod, this had better be good."

"No promises," Pod replied with a grin. Tyrion was nearly agape at the sight of a Lannister interacting in such an informal way with an employee. "These fellas are here to see your father."

"Can I help you?" she said politely. Her gaze flickered with curiosity over Tyrion's small stature. "I'm afraid my parents aren't here right now—"

"I had Frankie go get them," Pod interjected.

Now Tyrion really did gape. She knew Jaime was her father? And if Cersei was gone, who was Myrcella referring to as her mother?

"Thanks, Pod. Won't you gentlemen come up to the porch while you wait? I made some sweet tea earlier."

 _She_ had made tea? Was there truly no housekeeper or cook? Apart from Pod, there didn't seem to be any servants at all. Bronn tipped the driver, who rattled off as they walked toward the house.

"Myrcella," Tyrion began, but she held up a hand.

"Give me one minute," she said, flashing a pretty smile. "I'll be right back." And she disappeared into the house.

Tyrion let out a breath as Bronn raised his eyebrows almost up to his hairline. This was utterly strange, not at all what he had expected. He had thought to find Jaime— if he were still alive— living all by himself in that drafty old mausoleum on the peak of Casterly Rock, the same bitter sod who barely spoke except to lament the cruelty of being separated from his one true love. But no, Jaime had written in a previous letter that Lancel had come to live with him at Tywin's invitation, two happy bachelors living the high life, he'd added sourly.

Tyrion climbed the porch steps and hoisted himself into one of the rocking chairs. Bronn sat in another. Pod stood at the foot of the porch steps, his gaze keen as he peered out from under his hat brim toward where the big dog had run off to fetch Jaime and someone named Brian. A yip caught his attention, and he looked toward the barn to find the little dog trotting toward them, a boy following with something dangling from his hand.

"Is that… a chicken?" Tyrion asked no one in particular, eyes wide.

"Sorry I took so long," the boy said cheerfully. His brow was sweaty, his shirt was clinging damply, and he was liberally dusted with feathers and down. "I wanted to finish plucking it. Let me bring it to Myrcy and I'll be right back."

He jogged around to the back of the house, the little dog on his heels. Tyrion's gaze followed him in confusion. _Myrcy_ _?_

"Set it on the table," he heard Myrcella say, "then carry these out. Pa's almost done with his lunch."

Soon Tommen was back on the porch, bearing a tall glass of sweet tea in each hand. He handed one to Tyrion and the other to Bronn before going back inside and returning with another one, which he thrust at Pod before returning inside.

The hand tried to demur, but Myrcella called from inside, "Brienne said you're family, Pod, so sit down and drink it!"

Pod obediently sat down on the porch steps and drank it.

 _That imperious tone, at least, is very Cersei-like,_ Tyrion thought, relieved that at least something was recognizable in this mad day.

"I'm sorry for the delay," Myrcella said politely when she emerged at last, yet two more glasses in hand. "We weren't expecting company. What brings you here? Is something wrong?"

Tommen came back out pushing an older man in a wheeled chair. Half of the man's face was animated by a lively smile, but the other side drooped. He was holding a bottle, presumably also containing sweet tea.

"Selwyn," The man said, a little slurred-sounding, and held out a hand to Tyrion. "Tarth."

Tyrion left the rocking chair to come close enough to shake his hand. The name rang a bell; hadn't a family named Tarth arrived in Kingsland a few years before he'd left it?

"Tyrion Lannister," he introduced himself, then gestured at Bronn. "My assistant, Bronn Blackwater."

The children's faces shifted to expressions of surprise as they sat in the other porch swing.

"You're our Uncle Tyrion!" exclaimed Tommen.

"I don't remember you," Myrcella said apologetically. "And Tommen wasn't born yet when you left, I don't think."

"Dad will be very happy to see you," said Tommen. "He's been telling us a lot about you, this past week."

"He… has?" _Dad?_ "The sheriff said he'd been convicted, but not executed," said Tyrion. He took a sip of the tea. It was too strong and not sweet enough, but the way Myrcella was watching, eagerly awaiting his verdict, made him force a smile. "It's good," he lied. She beamed proudly.

"Yes," Tommen said. "He was sentenced to hang, but Brienne saved him."

"Who is Brienne?" _What the hell was happening? How could a someone save a convicted criminal sentenced to death?_ "And how did he save Jaime?"

"She," corrected Selwyn. "M'daughter. Married J-Jaime."

Tyrion stared at him. "Your daughter, Brienne, married Jaime? And it saved him from the noose?"

"There's some rule that allows it," said Myrcella. "She married him, and he was free to go, as if he'd never been arrested."

"Just walked right out, he said," contributed Tommen.

"And now you all live here?" asked Tyrion. "You seem very comfortable, like you're ranch hands, yourselves."

"Oh, no, we're terrible at it so far, aren't we, Myrcy?" Tommen said with a laugh, looking ruefully down at his wet shirt. "I can't pluck a chicken without soaking myself, and she can't cook anything without burning it."

' _Myrcy'_ _again._ Tyrion marveled at how they were using a nickname. Cersei had always insisted they were vulgar and common and insisted everyone's full name be used.

"I'm getting better," she mumbled, glaring down at her feet.

"Better," said Selwyn, patting her arm. "Good soon." She smiled thankfully at him.

The utter strangeness of it— kind encouragement in reaction to failure, instead of searing criticism and punishment?— was starting to make Tyrion feel uneasy. They looked so… happy. How was it possible, with their family, and how broken its members were? In particular, one member of it…

Tyrion coughed. "I hate to turn the mood of this happy gathering dark," he said, "but… where's Joffrey?"

"The sheriff didn't mention it?" The children looked surprised for a moment before Myrcella said, "He's dead."

Now Tyrion's eyebrows flew up to his hairline. "Who killed him?"

"How d'yeh know it was murder?" Bronn asked him with a smirk.

"He was accounted by everyone who met him as thoroughly horrible, even as a small child," said Tyrion wryly. "There was no way that boy was going to meet a natural death." He drained his glass of tea and patted his pockets in search of his flask. Unearthing it, he unscrewed the silver cap and took a hefty swig. "Am I wrong?"

"No," Myrcella replied. "You're not wrong. He was murdered. Gut-shot, Brienne says."

Tyrion grimaced. That was a particularly awful way to go. "Who did it?"

"They said it was Jon Snow," said Tommen. "Tried him for it, too. But I don't think anyone really believes it was him."

"One of good Ned Stark's boys?" Tyrion shook his head. Jon and Robb had been younger than Myrcella's present age when he'd left Kingsland, and he'd not known them well, but there was no way their sheer goodness could have been perverted to be capable of murder. "No."

"Well, after what Joffrey did to Sansa…" said Myrcella with a delicate shiver. "I think Robb and Jon could do it."

"Arya _definitely_ could do it," said Tommen, admiration shining on his face.

Myrcella collected the empty glasses and disappeared into the house. Curious, Tyrion followed, wanting to see the interior of the place his brother now called 'home'. It was shabby, a little crowded with furniture, but it looked… comfortable. Something the Rock never had been, that was certain.

Then he heard the clatter of hooves in the yard, and Jaime's voice.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, sounding suspicious, then, "Who are you?"

Tyrion hastened back out to the porch just as Bronn replied, "I'm here with—"

"Me," Tyrion finished.

Jaime looked well. Unfairly handsome as ever, of course, but the tight bitterness Tyrion recalled from years ago seemed to have faded from his face. He looked less angry, less tightly-wound. Even windblown and covered in dust, in practical garments any ranch hand might wear instead of the finely-tailored suits Tyrion was used to seeing him in— and, if Tyrion were not mistaken, with the remains of a cow pat clinging to one knee— he looked… happy?

Then he smiled, one of the huge, delighted grins Tyrion hadn't witnessed on him in decades. Jaime had always been the only person who truly loved him, who was ever glad to see him. To Tyrion's immense shame, tears came to his eyes at the joy on his brother's face as he dismounted.

He busied himself with taking another gulp from his flask to give himself time to blink until the moisture was gone, and came forward. Any snappy line he might have come up with was forgotten, and when he stood at the top of the porch steps, he blurted, "I'm glad you're not dead."

Standing on the top porch step, with Jaime on the ground, they were almost eye-level with each other.

"No thanks to you, you little shit," said Jaime, and swept him into his arms for a hug. "What took you so long?"

"Georgia," replied Tyrion, his voice muffled against his brother's shoulder. "Let go." When he was free again, he said, "Even twenty-five years after the war, Atlanta is still fucked, did you know that? You can't get there from Charleston without going to Jacksonville first. Very inefficient. I say we start our own train line and provide service from Charleston to Atlanta. We'll make a killing."

He stopped and peered shrewdly at Jaime, who was just standing there smiling at him.

"Speaking of a killing, what's this about Joffrey?" he said. "Why are you here instead of Casterly? And why are you _married_? And the children are aware you're their father? And—"

Jaime sobered. "There's a lot to discuss, yes. But first— you've met Pa? I mean, Mr. Tarth?"

Tyrion stared at him. "You call him 'Pa', too?" he said, incredulous.

His brother smiled sheepishly. "He wants me to. Isn't that right?" he directed to Selwyn, who nodded.

"All my… kids call me… Pa," he said. "Jaime… mine now."

Tyrion turned an incredulous face to his brother. Jaime had always been the needier of the two of them, the one most eager for affection. He was probably eating this up with a spoon.

"My luck has taken a turn for the better," Jaime told him, very seriously. "I've married into the finest family I've ever met. Wait until you meet Brienne, she's…"

His voice trailed away, and his face gained a peculiar expression, like he had no words that were up to the challenge of her description.

"She's right behind you," said a wry female voice.

To Tyrion's surprise, Jaime shot him a severe look of warning before stepping aside. Was he afraid Tyrion would flirt with her? Or offend her with a tasteless joke? Both were entirely possible, he had to admit.

But then he moved and Tyrion knew that the warning was to be kind or, better yet, not speak at all, because Brienne was possibly the ugliest woman he'd even seen. For her to be paired with the handsomest man he'd ever seen was the most amazing sort of irony possible.

Well, if he shouldn't speak, he'd look, and look he did. Hideous she might be, but Brienne stood there calmly, meeting Tyrion's stare with her own, and in her lovely eyes he saw no pity or scorn or contempt for him. Because he was Jaime's brother?

 _No,_ he thought, because she herself had been the object of those emotions her whole life, as well. Both of them freaks, and neither of them having any way to change it. They just had to endure, to thrive in spite of it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, very sincerely, and put his hand out for her to shake. "I have no idea what you've done in your life to warrant being saddled with my brother, but since I doubt anyone else would have him, I beg you to be patient with him. He… grows on you. Rather like mold on bread."

He wasn't sure what reaction he expected from her, but it was not a single lifted eyebrow and the reply of, "More like moss on a tree, don't you think? Decorative and even sometimes useful."

Tyrion blinked at her once, and then grinned. He looked to his brother, only to find him squinting as if in deep contemplation.

"I feel like you're making fun of me, but I can't figure out how," Jaime said, frowning.

"He got the looks, but I got the brains," sighed Tyrion. "I fear for the intelligence of your children. You'll have to counteract his dimness."

"Here's hoping he counteracts my face," she replied promptly. "With any luck. But they'll probably have his brains and my face and then we'll never marry them off."

"Just have to tour them around the courtrooms and gallows of Texas," said Jaime, his tone cool, "and they'll have no trouble making matches."

Tyrion was well aware that Jaime was just pretending to be upset by their jokes, but the expression Brienne turned to her husband was all big eyes and dismay, worried she might have hurt him. But before he could speak, Jaime beamed that happy smile at her.

"No harm done, wench," he said. "Just jokes."

Brienne turned away, looking relieved as she went into the house, and Jaime watched her go, his smile fading into the kind of yearning Tyrion had only ever seen him aim at Cersei.

 _By all seven gods,_ Tyrion thought in amazement, _he_ _'s actually falling in love with her._


	20. Chapter 20

Jon VIII

Jon made it to the Northpoint a bit late that morning, Dany having distracted him while washing up prior to dressing. The sun pouring through the filmy white silk on the windows had fallen over her like a lover's touch, making her glow. The contrast between her pale skin and the deep pink of her nipples had been irresistible and he had had no choice but to appreciate it with hands and lips and then they'd been back in bed and he'd had to rush through his own washing-up and dressing.

Upon arrival at the Northpoint— stomach growling from hunger since there'd been no time to break his fast at the Triple D— he snuck into the kitchen and flattered Nan until she let him have some bread and butter and a hunk of cheese. He shoveled it in while searching for Robb, finally finding him in their father's— now his own— study.

Robb was bent over the ledgers, elbows planted on the desk and hands bracing his head as he pored over one spread open before him. He looked up at Jon's entrance, and his expression of relief was almost comical.

"Thank the gods," he said. "This is a nightmare. Here, _you_ try to find how much the last shipment of feed cost."

He pushed the ledger across the desk to Jon, who took the seat on the other side and duly pulled the volume close. The Westerlings owned the feed and grain store, so he began dragging his fingertip down the entries, searching for the name. _Westerling, Westerling_ …

After several pages, during which both brothers worked in silence, Robb spoke.

"We're all surprised that you keep coming back here," he said. "We thought with how much Miss Daenerys owns, she'd keep you busy helping her run it all."

"No," Jon replied, lifting his head from the page he was squinting at. Jory's handwriting was atrocious. "She's been doing it by herself since she was Arya's age."

Robb blinked in surprise. "The idea of Arya in charge of just Nymeria makes me nervous. I can't imagine her running the ranch."

"Let alone all the other things," Jon added, turning a page. His father's writing wasn't any easier to decypher. He sighed.

"Other things?"

He nodded. "She owns most of the land in town… all the shopkeepers pay rent to her for their stores. And over the years, she's acquired shares in the Arryn mine, too. She gives out loans to half the people in town so if they default, she gets their businesses. She doesn't like to do that, though, so they take advantage of her to pay late or half as much…"

Jon frowned, wondering if he should offer to help her with that. He didn't like the idea of her kindness being abused.

"And that's not to mention properties elsewhere… shares in other mines… she even has plantations on Jamaica. She plays in the stock market, too, I think. I don't know how she keeps it all straight. The idea of it all makes my eyes cross."

As did the ledger. Jon gave up on it and pushed it away.

"Do you love her?"

Jon looked up at him, startled by the question.

"No. Not yet." he said, and it was true. However, it was also true that… "But I will."

"You're so sure of that?" Robb's skepticism was plain. "You know what they say about her, in town… that her family is mad, and so superior to the rest of us."

"Her family is not mad." He paused, thinking back to his introduction to Viserys. "Alright, yes, _they_ are mad, but _Dany_ isn't. She's not a snob, not really. She has opinions about some people being better than others, but it's based more on how they behave than how high they were born or how rich they are. She's not anything like what everyone thinks, in fact. She was raised oddly, is all, and she's trying her best to figure out how to be normal. She tries so damned _hard_ , Robb. At everything she does."

The _trying_ was why he was fairly certain he would come to love her, because every time he realized how hard she strove to do everything just right, to fulfill all the roles forced on her, it broke his heart a little more. So much responsibility heaped upon her small shoulders, so young, by lazy, greedy people— family, who were supposed to _care_ about her— and not only did she not shirk the duty thrust on her, but she grasped it with both hands, and thrived besides. She worked sun-up to sun-down not only running a financial empire, but a ranch, and a huge house, and still managed to know her servants and hands by name.

"Are you sure you're not already in love with her? Because that's a lovesick face if I've ever seen one." Robb's voice was teasing. "You're making me queasy."

Jon tossed a wad of paper at him. It hit him squarely between the eyes.

"When we had that hoof-and-mouth breakout three years ago…" he said. "Remember how Father and Jory just rode in one day with four hundred head?"

"How could I forget? Losing those cattle would have sunk us. The new ones helped us scrape by until we recovered. Father never did tell me where he got the money to buy them. Why?" Robb narrowed his eyes in thought. Then he blinked. "Are you saying that was her?"

Jon nodded. "When Jory was gone for a month, four years ago… turns out, Dany needed a foreman for a while, so Father lent her ours. The four hundred cattle was her helping us out in return." He paused, looking down at the ledger book before him. "She would have been seventeen at the time, and running everything already."

Robb stared at him for a long moment, and then said, "Hell, I think _I_ _'_ _m_ in love with her. Tell her if she ever gets tired of you, I'm next in line."

Jon was startled by the instant rush of _no_ he felt in reaction to his brother's words. It was jealous, and possessive, and territorial, and… worried. Maybe a little scared? That his handsome, wealthy, _legitimate_ brother might be able to lure Dany away from him. That Jon wouldn't be enough for her, as he had never been enough for anyone else.

Robb's laugh caught his attention. "I have never seen that expression on your face, Jon, and hope to never see it again."

"What? What expression?"

"You looked like I'd stabbed you in the heart, and you wanted to return the favor." His laughter faded to a faint smile. "Don't worry. You know I'd never try to come between you and your wife."

Jon swallowed, embarrassed by his overreaction. "I know."

"Though if _she_ wants to come to _me_ , well—"

Another wad of paper pelted him between the eyes, a lot harder than the previous one. Robb yelped and darted from the room, Jon hot on his heels. Laughing, Robb tried to evade his brother but Jon was faster and managed to tackle him before he'd gotten halfway across the dusty yard. Robb tackled him back and was thrown off before Jon wrestled him into position for a hog-tie, but without the rope, Robb just sprang free and got Jon into a choke hold from behind. Jon flipped him over his head, then sat on him, grinding his face into the dirt. They were cackling like hens the entire time, finally too exhausted to do more than flop to the ground, wheezing.

A feminine cough made Jon crack open one eye, then the other, to see Dany standing a few feet away with Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. He'd been so intent on fighting with Robb that he hadn't even noticed her ride in, though her gelding Drogon stood nearby, gazing down at them with his customary contempt for all and sundry.

"Uh," he said intelligently. "Hello."

"Hello," she replied. "I hope this was a friendly fight. Or am I going to have to scold my new goodbrother for damaging my husband? Honestly, Robb, I've only had him for a short while. You can't break him yet."

Jon hopped to his feet, as did Robb. "I'm fine, see?" He slapped at his clothes, stirring up a cloud of dust. "Good as new."

Dany's vivid gaze traveled over him, swiftly but with such thoroughness that he felt like he'd survived a forest fire, scorched and still faintly glowing from the heat. Their eyes caught, held; Jon wished the others to perdition so he could have her all to himself, maybe convince her to spend some time with him in the barn, where there was lots of nice soft hay and privacy (unless you counted the horses, and that hadn't stopped them the day before, back at the Triple D).

Sansa's titter broke his train of thought, and he blinked, coming out of his reverie to look around. Robb was openly grinning, Sansa was blushing and biting her lip as she averted her eyes. Arya and Rickon looked nauseated. Bran looked curious. And Dany… she was blushing, too, but she smiled at him, looking… looking _happy_. She was happy, and _he_ had done that for her. He smiled back, the wide smile he rarely felt free enough to use.

"I'm surprised you're here," he told her. "Do you need me for something?" The idea that she'd want him enough that she'd come fetch him from the Northpoint made his bloodflow divert a little.

Her blush deepened; she had not missed the alternate meaning of his words. "I realized that I am not very busy today, so I thought I would come get better-acquainted with everyone."

She beamed at the others, encompassing them all with a lavish smile that left them a bit dazed, and looped her arms through those of her new goodsisters. "Doubtless the men have work to do; will you give me a tour, ladies?"

"Of course," said Sansa. "The house, and then after lunch we can take a wagon around the rest of the ranch, if you like…"

Their voices faded as they departed, leaving the men behind in the yard, but as they went, Dany looked back over her shoulder at Jon, just like she had to Oberyn (thinking of her flirting with Oberyn made him want to shoot the man, despite his many kindnesses over the years) and her smile was a mysterious, close-lipped little thing. He was sure he'd seen a photo of some painting, somewhere, that looked just like that… he'd have to ask her about it, later. Amused, he tugged on the front of his hat in a salute to her, and she turned back around, but made sure to give her hips an extra little bit of sway as she walked, knowing he was watching.

"You know," said Robb, "I've been scared of marriage all these years—"

" 'All these years'? You're only twenty-three—"

"—but I think I'm going to get married, too, if it's like that."

"Like what?"

"Disgusting," said Rickon flatly, revulsion plain in his voice. "You looked like you were going to take a bite out of her." He peered up at his eldest brother, skeptical. "You _want_ to act like that?"

Robb tapped on Rickon's hat brim, forcing it to tip sharply down over the boy's face. "I promise one day you'll understand."

"I hope not," Rickon muttered, fixing his hat and stomping off toward the barn.

"What do you think, Bran?" Robb asked, while Jon's face burned with embarrassment. He'd have to be more careful about letting his thoughts show so clearly.

"I'm not sure," Bran said in his thoughtful way. "It is disgusting, but at the same time…" His eyes took on a faraway glaze. "There's this girl in school, Meera… she's a year older, but…"

"But it's not disgusting with her?"

Bran nodded, a tiny smile on his lips as his cheeks pinkened. "It's not disgusting with her."

"There you go!" said Robb, and slapped him on the shoulder. "That's the mystery of life, right there."

"Alright, ye wise sage of the mountain," said Jon dryly. "It's almost time for lunch, and we better wash up if we want Nan to let us in the house to eat it."

They splashed a lot of water around in the barn, cleaning off the dust, and then they all tromped in for the noon meal. It was a peculiar affair, however, because Catelyn's remarks became more and more caustic, with Jon as their target. Meanwhile, Dany's were honey-sweet and only became more syrupy as lunch progressed, with layers of meaning under each word that Jon had no hope of decrypting. His mood lowered with every comment Catelyn made, shaming him with pointed barbs about how much of a burden he had been on the Stark family, how unwelcome an addition, until he lost his appetite entirely and just picked at the last half of his meal.

Finally, blessedly, lunch drew to a close. Dany gently laid her utensils on her plate, folded and placed her napkin on top of them, turned to Catelyn with her sweetest smile yet, and said, "Miz Catelyn, you should ask your brother about the new fishery he's opening. It's so exciting, to learn he is engaging in such a risky endeavor. I'm very interested to learn how it goes for him."

She stood, and the men all launched to their feet in response.

"You'll give him my regards, won't you? And tell him I'll call on him in the next few days. Tomorrow, in fact." She turned to Jon. "Will you come home with me now, instead of later? I just recalled a matter I would like to discuss with you. It seems likely that I'll be having to pull out of a new investment I've just entered. I'd like your advice on how to proceed."

"…of course," Jon said, but he shot Robb a glance, as if to ask _What just happened?_ Robb had no better idea, because he just widened his eyes to reply _I don_ _'_ _t know, either._

It was short work to saddle Ghost again. Jon threw Dany up onto Drogon, sparing a moment to admire how poised she looked in the sidesaddle.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Dany told them all graciously, as if _she_ were the host thanking her guests for honoring her with their presence. "I am glad to have you as my new family, and hope to see much of you from now on. You are all welcome at the Triple D at any time."

She gave them a lovely smile, beaming it at Catelyn for an extra few seconds— and causing that woman to scowl more fiercely— before wheeling Drogon around and cantering down the drive. Jon let Ghost have his head, knowing the horse would follow Dany's mount.

"What was that all about?" he asked her when they had crossed the bridge and were well on their way back to the Triple D.

She just smiled at him serenely. "I'll tell you when we're home and have some privacy."

Jon looked around; there was nothing but the river to the left, and the town in the distance on the right. Straight ahead was only Tyrell farmland for a dozen acres at least. The only other living beings within a square mile were the cows, and they weren't talking.

But he shrugged; he'd seen his father give in to Catelyn in exactly this way many times, and theirs had seemed to be a marriage of considerable harmony— bastard notwithstanding— so he decided to take a page from Ned's book and do the same.

Upon arrival at the Triple D, Dany removed her hat and handed it to Missandei, then removed Jon's and relinquished it likewise.

"We'll be in the library," she announced.

"Yes, Miss Dany," said the housekeeper, carefully not smiling.

Dany took him by the sleeve and led him into the library. Right away, the cool dark place soothed his nerves, jangled after a hour in close quarters with Catelyn Stark.

"So, this thing about Uncle Edmure—" he began, but she turned to him and started to unbutton his waistcoat.

"Later," she said, and pushed it off his shoulders before working on his shirt. That, too, fell to the floor.

"Are you—"

Dany leaned forward and took his nipple into her mouth, setting her teeth into it lightly, so lightly.

" _Later_ , Jon," she said before looking up at him, all doe eyes and seduction. It would take a man far stronger than he to resist that.

"Okay," he agreed, and began to do some unbuttoning of his own. Her basque was peeled off, then her corset, and the pink lines from its boning rubbed and massaged away. His gun belt and trousers landed on top of his shirt and waistcoat, with her skirts and petticoats following.

At long last, they were nude, and he was kissing her, and she was melting against him in that way she had that made him feel dizzy, almost drunk with lust, at how she gave herself over to him so completely. She had wanted him so much she'd dragged him home from another ranch to have him. And he was reasonably sure that the subtext-laden innuendo at lunch had been her subtle way of threatening Catelyn somehow… in retaliation for the woman's lack of kindness to him. Another sensation began to unfurl within him, permeating the lust, making it take on a sharper, sweeter edge.

"Dany," he gasped into her mouth.

He needed to be inside her, over her, surrounding her… he sank to the floor, and she went with him, uncaring that they were going to be on the carpet, not even managing to get to a chair or the settee in their eagerness for each other. Jon moved between her thighs, their skin hot around his waist, and the damp press of her center against his belly made him start to pant in earnest.

He guided himself to where he needed to be, and slid home. He planted his forearms on the floor to either side of her and began to thrust.

"Yes," she sighed. Her arms came around him and she pressed her palms flat against his back, fingertips digging into his shoulder blades, as if she were trying to fuse them together. "Jon."

"Yes," he agreed. _"_ _Dany."_

She felt like heaven around him, sleek and tight, and despite them having enjoyed each other that morning upon waking, Jon knew he would not last long. Not with the memory of her defending him, in some oblique female way, against Catelyn so fresh in his mind. He remembered that stinging little smile she'd aimed at his stepmother, like she was aiming a dart at someone who had threatened what was hers.

 _It_ _'_ _s too soon,_ he tried to tell himself. _Just a few weeks._

Oh, he'd been attracted to her from the first, had wanted her the moment he'd nearly bowled her over in the mercantile doorway. He'd wanted her, again, when she'd commanded him so pertly to give him Brienne's hairpins, and then again when she'd sat beside him at his father's funeral. _That_ had been odd, to feel so sunk in misery and loss, and still feel a flash of desire, just because a woman was comforting him.

 _She has claimed me, and now I am hers,_ Jon thought as the pleasure of being inside her began to overwhelm him.

Her imperious acquisition of him, in the most vulnerable moment of his life, should have made him hate her. But instead, she'd wormed her way past his misgivings almost the moment they were wed. How could he resist her sensuous eagerness, her open enthusiasm, her enjoyment of his body, her gladness that he was enjoying hers? How could any man? Despite the coldness of her offer to him, she did not want this to be a loveless marriage. She did not want to keep her distance. She did not want to only deal with him for the purpose of procreation, and then wash her hands of him when that goal had been achieved. She wanted to be his wife, in every sense of the word, and she wanted him to be her husband.

As she came apart beneath him, around him, trembling and gasping his name, he knew that he wanted her to be his wife, _only_ his, his, his…

 _I_ _'_ _m claiming her, too,_ he thought, and followed her into oblivion.

* * *

Sansa VII

Sansa had to wait three days for her next communication with her secret admirer, and she was so fidgety that Arya had begun to look at her with suspicion. Sansa said it was because her bruises were itching as they healed, but her sister— who was a world-class expert on bruising, due to her casual policy on personal safety— did not appear in any way convinced.

The parcel Sansa removed from the cottonwood tree was larger than the others, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Opening it, she found a beautiful little box made of woven porcupine quills. The lid featured an intricate flowering branch, upon which was perched a little red bird. Fingers trembling, Sansa lifted off the lid and found a folded square of paper within.

 _Dear Sansa,_

 _Should you be calling me_ _'_ _dear' if I am not dear to you? Only write it if you mean it._

 _Lots of people are undeserving of the efforts made for them. You don_ _'_ _t take the efforts for granted, and that is why you deserve them._

 _The feathers and sweetgrass are wasted, hidden under a loose floorboard or wherever you_ _'_ _ve stuck them. I hope you put this box where you can see it every day. I have given you those things so you could enjoy them, not deny yourself and be afraid your family will see them. Should you be afraid of your family? Why do they tease you? I thought Starks were supposed to be good to each other._

 _As I wrote before, I expect nothing from you. I probably should not keep your gift. But this pen is the finest thing I have ever owned, and nothing could make me give it up now. The bag you put it in is the same cloth as the dress I saw you wear to the Sevenmas dance. I wondered all night what the velvet felt like. Now I know._

 _I don_ _'_ _t know what to give you, after this. All I have left is myself, but I'm not worth a nickel. I guess this is my last gift, then. I wish I had more. I wish I was more. I wish I deserved you._

 _Your Admirer_

The rawness of the emotions he clearly was struggling with made tears prick her eyes. He seemed agonized, despairing, hopeless. She thought of how much the pen meant to him, and how he still recalled what she wore half a year ago, and most of all how he seemed to despise himself. What a strange, complicated man!

The idea that this would be her last note from him made her heart sink. She hated knowing that he would return to the loneliness that seemed to pervade each of his words. She had no hope that whatever was between them— if anything was between them— could ever amount to something. But she could not bear the idea that he was hurting, and it was because of her. She hurried home and didn't even bother concealing her actions when she went right to her bedroom, to the curious glance of Nan. She closed and locked the door and removed his other gifts from their hiding spot, lining everything up before her on her dressing table, and then she began to write.

It took her several tries, but finally she ended up with something she was pleased with.

 _Dear_ _Admirer,_

 _I don_ _'_ _t need any more presents. If you think me worthy of them, then you must know I would not maintain a correspondence with you only in exchange for gifts. Can we please continue writing to each other as we do? I have come to look forward to your notes more than the gifts._

 _I have written_ _'_ _dear' and I mean it, for you have become dear to me, if only as a friend. Your words have made me think and reconsider. I should not let my fear of others' reactions dictate how I behave. I won't hide the things you have given me any longer. They're now right on my dressing table where I can see them every morning and evening._

 _The last paragraph of your letter came near to breaking my heart. It disturbs me that you place yourself so far beneath me, because I am not at all as good as you think I am. There is much less distance between us than you think. Why do you feel yourself so undeserving? I_ _'_ _m sure you would feel better if you make amends, or repair what you have broken._

 _If you see me in town, won_ _'_ _t you please consider speaking to me? Would it not be far better to talk to each other in person? I promise I will not turn you away, no matter who you are._

 _Your friend,_

 _Sansa Stark_

She felt apprehensive as she placed the letter in the knothole, and for good reason— day after day passed, and there was nothing in the mail cubby to alert her to look in the tree. She took to checking it every day, anyway, but always came away disappointed, and began to wonder if she should send him another letter. Did he not believe her, that she didn't need gifts to continue their correspondence? That hurt; she did not want him to think her greedy.

Why Sansa wanted him to think anything of her at all was something she dared not explore too deeply. It was probably just that she was feeling a bit heartsore and lonely; she had tried to become closer to Arya, and bless her sister's heart, she had tried as well, but they just had nothing in common and ended up boring each other rigid.

As for friends… Joffrey had been awful, but at least she'd had a companion to do things with instead of languishing by herself at events where a male escort was desired. Ever since the trial, Brienne had been busy with her new family— Jaime Lannister! And his children! Sansa marveled about it daily— and Jeyne was spending her free time with Robb, who had taken to courting her with fresh enthusiasm of late.

As for Margaery… she was hard to read. Flirtatious and gossipy, she was talking about going to stay in Austin with her terrifying grandmother now that Robb was clearly directing his attentions elsewhere, and there were no other young men of her caliber in town. Margaery had even invited Sansa to go with her, since surely she would be eager to make the acquaintance of some fellows their age, or so she said. Sansa was not entirely sure of the other girl's motives and was still examining the invitation closely.

After a particularly lonely day, Sansa could not resist unburdening herself to Admirer in spite of his lack of response. He had said he cared for her, hadn't he? Even if he no longer felt comfortable writing to her, there was no reason she could not at least enjoy the illusion of having him for a friend.

 _Dear Admirer,_

 _I have been in a low mood, of late, not the least reason of which is your lack of response to my last note. I feel, lately, as if all my friends have become too busy for me. I understand why, of course, and feel selfish for wishing they_ _'_ _d pay attention to me. But… I've lost them, I've lost my father… I seem to have lost you, too. Apart from checking our cottonwood tree, my days feel empty and without purpose. Even if you never reply to me again, I'm going to keep writing to you, as a sort of diary, I suppose._

 _But perhaps you would indulge me one last time, and just answer this: can you say_ _—_ _honestly, without lying— that you don_ _'_ _t want to exchange any more notes with me?_

 _I hope you are well and have moved past whatever fit of melancholy you were in when you last wrote. With how dreary I have been lately, I definitely do not deserve whatever exalted notion you have of me._

 _With affection,_

 _Sansa_

After she left the note in the tree, she proceeded on to town for the mail, waving hello to Sam through the window in the post office. Back outside, she walked listlessly down the boardwalk before stopping to survey whichever occupants of Kingsland were present, wondering which of them Dear Admirer might be.

There was Ramsay Bolton, unsettling as ever with his pale eyes and bloody apron; she quickly averted her gaze when it locked with his.

There was Mr. Seaborn's eldest son, Dale, helping his father at the livery. Dale was newly home from the navy and had recently lost his wife, according to Margaery. She had commented what a pity it was that handsome, dark-haired, green-eyed Dale was 'only' a Seaborn instead of the son of a more prominent family: in other words, worthy of a Tyrell.

Then she had said that he'd be _perfect_ for Sansa, and wouldn't she set her cap for him? "Beggars can't be choosers, can they?" Margaery had said, trilling with laughter. She was probably still miffed at Sansa's refusal to consider her brothers, since the idea of being related to Margaery's boorish father and whiny mother and frightening grandmother struck terror into Sansa's heart. Or perhaps Margaery was resentful that Robb preferred Jeyne to her? Whichever it was, the comment had stuck with Sansa for a while.

 _Am I a beggar?_ Sansa wondered. Was she so eager for male admiration that she'd even force an emotional connection to her Admirer? She could not stop thinking about him, wondering who he could be. She knew he was someone in town, based on things he had written. Which of them could it be?

She watched Dale unhitch a team and curry them, his motions economical and smooth from years of practice. He was tall and fit and attractive. All she felt, to look at him, was sympathy at the passing of his wife. He showed not a moment's interest in her, not even the barest notice she was just across the street.

 _Perhaps I am._ She moved her attention to studying the brawny blacksmith as he labored over his anvil. He, too, was tall and fit and attractive, his muscles gleaming and flexing as he banged away at a horseshoe. Shirtless and sweaty, when he saw her watching, he grinned and winked, making her blush and titter nervously, though she felt nothing more for him than she had for Dale.

"You're blocking traffic, girl," said a gravelly voice. "Got nothing better to do than flirt?"

Sansa _eeped_ and spun around to find Sheriff Clegane standing behind her in the doorway of the jail, one bull-sized shoulder braced against the door jamb, arms crossed over his massive chest and one booted ankle over the other. He was not wearing his jacket or a neck-tie, just a waistcoat over his shirt, which had its top button undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked powerful and quite uncivilized. The thought made an odd stabbing sensation dart from her chest to her belly.

His head was tilted in a way that made his long black hair swing away from his scars, leaving them largely visible. Sansa wondered, not for the first time, why she was not repulsed by them. Instead, they reminded her how strong he had had to be, to endure such agony as he must have felt, when he received the scars. She looked away from his piercing gaze— with some difficulty, it must be admitted— to find that, yes, various other people were having to turn sideways to get past where she was standing smack in the middle of the boardwalk.

"I'm— I'm sorry," she stammered to the town at large, pressing her back against a post to flatten herself and obstruct others as least as possible. Mrs. Royce, Myranda's mother, gave her a narrow glance as she flounced past on her way to the mercantile.

"I wasn't flirting," Sansa sighed, feeling even lower than before, which made the sheriff peer closely at her.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked. Demanded, really.

"What?" she said, before remembering her manners. "I mean, I beg your pardon?"

His eyebrow twitched and his mouth tightened, as if he were amused but repressing it. "You heard me."

"Wh-why would you say something is wrong with me?" Sansa replied, using Arya's favorite evasion technique of answering a question with a question. He was laughing at her again, the brute. "Why do you even care?"

The eyebrow flicked again. "Who says I do?"

"Why else would you ask?" she huffed. Honestly, speaking with the man was like riding a carousel, going round and round in a circle and getting nowhere.

"Idle curiosity," was his response. "Now that the jail is empty again, I've got nothing to do but sit around and wait for something exciting to happen in the saloon."

As if he'd custom-ordered it, a whoop went up from the saloon, and then a woman screamed, and then a Greyjoy came hurtling through the window with a great crash of breaking glass.

"There, now you have something to keep you occupied," she told him.

"Lucky me," he said, his tone arid, and rolled his eyes, making her laugh.

He brushed by her on his way to the steps down to the street; a little thrill went through her at the touch of his arm against hers, even though the layers of his shirt and her dress. Though she _should_ get on Lady and go home, she just kept standing there, observing as he strode across the street toward the saloon. He was just so… big. He took command wherever he went. It made her feel breathless and overheated and reminded her of how he'd carried her in his arms, and growled, and the way he'd looked at her in the moonlight.

"Rodrik, you damned fool," she heard him say as he took the Greyjoy by the waist of his trousers and lugged him upright.

"I'm Maron," the Greyjoy bleated, wobbling unsteadily on his inebriated legs.

"You're arrested, is what you are," grumbled Sheriff Clegane.

"Ahhh… here," Maron said, jamming his hand down the front of his trousers and withdrawing a wad of crumpled cash. "That's how much it costs for you to forget you saw any of this, right?"

The sheriff's lip curled in disgust. "I'm not taking money you were storing under your balls," he said. "And—

He paused, and then looked across at where Sansa stood and watched. Their eyes made contact for a long, breathless moment.

"And I don't take pay-offs anymore," he concluded, and grabbed Maron by the arm to haul him to the jail.

As he approached where Sansa stood, his gaze was still on her, and something about the way he stared made shivers erupt down her back. She was filled with a sense of… foreboding? Fear? Dread? It was as if could not bear for him to be near, and could not bear for him to be far, at the same time. Her corset felt too tight, and even though she stood in the shade of the covered boardwalk, she felt like the full brunt of the sun were blazing down upon her. A flash of panic drove her to turn and hurry away, toward where Lady patiently awaited her return.

The next day, she had a response from Admirer.

 _I will never lie to you. Of course I want to keep writing. But I am trying to save myself. I can never have you, but even this little amount of contact makes me feel as if I can. As if wanting you isn_ _'_ _t hopeless and impossible. Prolonging this will make it even harder for me to survive when it's over. But if you want to continue, we will. I can't refuse you anything._

 _Damn you, Sansa. I don_ _'_ _t even own myself anymore. All of me is yours._


	21. Chapter 21

Jaime VII

Jaime knew he was smiling foolishly, but he couldn't seem to stop. To have Tyrion back after a decade made him happier than he had thought it might, in no small part because it had been years since he'd been in the company of anyone who gave a damn about him. Any pretense Cersei might have made was gone when he refused to bed her ever again. Tywin had never pretended in the first place, and then he had left for San Francisco.

Jaime had rarely been allowed to even be in the same room as the children, and Bobby cared more for drinking and diddling his maids than befriending his goodbrother. Jaime had been lonely, though had denied it, and only realized it now that he was surrounded by people, all of whom were at that moment crammed into the kitchen around the dining table, even Pod shoehorned between Pa and Tommen.

It was funny to observe his brother, who sat wide-eyed and openly amazed at his surroundings and companions even as he spooned chicken and dumplings into his mouth. Compared to a typical Lannister meal, where everyone ate course after opulent course in tense silence, the Tarth household must have seemed like a zoo or a madhouse, but Jaime had never been so happy, even if he had yet to lay a finger on his wife in anything but a platonic way.

But after her activities of the other night, which had come after _his_ activities in a similar vein, he had hope that that platonic status might eventually end. She had thought he was asleep, but he'd been awake and aware of every move, every shuddering breath… the faint scent of her in the air, and then the tentative clasp of her arms around him, had been sweetly satisfying. She was like a stray cat, he was learning; he had to put temptation within reach, and then back away, letting her gather her courage to run forward and snatch it. He just had to wait.

Or nudge temptation closer and closer each time.

"Can we speak after the meal is over?" Tyrion asked him, his voice pitched low. "Somewhere private?"

"It's Myrcella's and my job to do the washing up, since Brienne and Tommen made supper," Jaime told him, enjoying how, yet again, his brother's eyes widened in shock. "But you can take Myrcella's place and help me instead."

"Would you, Uncle Tyrion?" she asked with the exact same innocently pleading face Cersei had used with Tywin when she wanted to get her way. "I've been busy today and I'm _very_ tired."

Tyrion grumbled something under his breath, glowering.

"Sounded like a 'yes' to me," Brienne said mildly, making Jaime grin. "Tommen, you want to sleep in the barn with Pod so your uncle can take your bed?"

"Sure!" the boy replied happily. It probably sounded like an adventure to him.

"We need to think about adding on to the house," said Jaime. "A separate dining room, and at least two more bedrooms, for now. More later."

Brienne gave him an alarmed look and averted her gaze, standing to gather empty dishes from the table.

"It's fine as it is," she mumbled. "This is just an unusual crowd of people. We'll be fine for a night or two."

"Well, yes, but I was thinking more about when the children start to come," he replied easily.

Her look shifted from alarm to pure panic, and she went a bright, mottled red. "That's far in the future," she said repressively. "Far, far, _far_ in the future."

 _Sooner than you think,_ he replied in his mind, grinning at her in a way that made her somehow turn even darker red as he cleared the rest of the table.

Once the others had cleared out of the house to sit on the porch, it was only Tyrion and Jaime.

"I know you have a lot of questions," Jaime said lightly, "so fire at will."

"I don't even know where to begin," replied Tyrion. He dragged a chair over to the wash basin and climbed up on it. "I guess I'll… dry? You have more experience washing, at this point. I can't do much harm if I don't dry things well."

Jaime tossed a few handfuls of soap chips into the basin on top of the dirty dishes and poured boiling water over it all, then added a few pumps of cooler water and plunged his hands in.

"Might as well start at the beginning," Jaime decided. "So, Renly ran off with one of the Tyrell boys the same night Bobby died. Someone pounded Bobby's head open with a river stone, but Cersei told everyone he tripped and hit the corner of his desk. Clegane pointed out that the dent in Bobby's skull wasn't shaped like a corner, and Cersei panicked and left town with her latest paramour."

Tyrion glanced at him over the plate he was drying. "You sound neither surprised nor jealous."

"Because I am neither," replied Jaime. "I gave up on her long ago. She kept telling me she'd use the sponges, but when she felt broody… you know she's not one to scruple about ethics. If she wanted something, any lie was justified. After Tommen was conceived, I just… couldn't make excuses for her anymore." He shrugged. "The last ten years have been lonely, without her, I won't lie. But… I like myself better, if that makes any sense. I did the right thing, breaking off with her, and I like myself more for it."

He coughed, feeling awkward to reveal so much, and continued.

"Renly mailed out a letter claiming that if anything happened to Bobby, it was our fault, Cersei's and mine. She told me that she'd done it to defend herself, because he'd started hitting her, worse than ever before."

"Do you believe her?"

"Yes." Jaime's gaze grew distant as he recalled bruises and sore ribs from over a decade ago. "After she was gone, there was no one but me left to blame, so Clegane arrested me. Joffrey acted like he didn't know me and wouldn't lift a finger to help. After a few days, there was a trial. If it were just the letter, I'd probably have gotten off, but Lancel testified that he saw me sneak onto the Double B, clock Bobby with the stone, and sneak back off."

"Cersei must have promised something." Tyrion's eyes narrowed. "Have you expressed your appreciation to him?"

"He insulted Brienne so I gave him a light beating, and kicked him out of town."

"Just a light one?" Tyrion tsked in disappointment. "Ah well, done is done. Then what?"

"Baelish convicted me, then sentenced me to hang." He blew out a breath, staring at the floor for a moment. "I really thought I was finished. Father hadn't replied to any of the telegrams I sent when Bobby died, when Cersei left… I wrote a will and just hoped it would go fast. That my neck would snap, instead of having to choke to death."

Tyrion's eyes were wide. "But then… Brienne?"

Jaime couldn't repress his smile. "She marched right up and declared there was a rule of court that said a man's sentence can be commuted if a woman marries him. I thought she was going to pick Jon Snow. She had told me as much, the day before. But then… when they were about to drag Snow and I to the hanging tree, she claimed me, instead. Baelish had to go along; there were a hundred people there. He couldn't intimidate or buy all of them off. So he married us, right then and there, and just like that, I was free to go."

"You didn't have any qualms, marrying a woman you didn't know?"

"I knew her… a little. Enough to know that she was kind, and generous, and compassionate. And since the alternative was death… there really was no choice." He sighed. "I didn't care so much about myself. Been feeling mostly dead the past decade, anyway. But Myrcella and Tommen have lost so much, lately. I didn't know what had happened to you or Renly, haven't heard from Stannis in years, and Father wasn't responding. As far as I knew, I was all they had left." He gave a little laugh. "I'm not much, but I'm better than nothing."

His brother stared at him, his face sober. "You're more than you realize," Tyrion said quietly.

"I'm not, really. What Brienne said… that I'm like moss, decorative and sometimes useful… she was joking, but she's right." He forced a smile, but he could it was a bleak one. "The reason she considered marrying Snow in the first place was because she needs help around the ranch. She thought she was getting a decent young man with experience in ranching, and instead she got someone older, with a terrible reputation but no ranching knowledge at all, and two illegitimate children, to boot. I'm a pretty bum deal, all told. But I'm trying to make more of myself. Maybe end up being useful most of the time, instead of only occasionally. The idea that she'd come to feel I was a mistake, and a burden, and regret her choice to save me…"

Dread rose up in his belly, thick and queasy. He'd spent most of his life feeling like a burden and a mistake. He had a feeling that if Brienne came to think that of him, it would be devastating.

"I was never smart like you, or ambitious like Cersei. All I've ever had was this." He waved his hand vaguely around his face. "I made a huge fucking mess of the first half of my life, but now I have another chance, Tyrion. A good woman has taken a chance on me, and I'm not going to squander it. I'm going to be strong from now on, so she knows she can rely on me, and I'm going to raise Myrcella and Tommen to be good people, not…"

"Not Lannisters?" Tyrion was smirking, but he looked worried. Jaime wished he hadn't poured out so much of himself; it always made his brother uncomfortable.

 _At least he_ _'s not berating me as a nancy the way Father always did,_ he thought. _He just wishes I_ _'d shut the hell up and talk about something else._

"Yeah," he said, unsurprised at the hoarseness of his voice. "Not Lannisters. Tarths, instead."

"Brienne doesn't seem entirely at-ease with you," Tyrion ventured after a moment. "But you haven't known each other long."

"She hasn't been treated well by others." Jaime frowned and concentrated on scouring the big iron skillet free of any clinging bits. "Because they think she's ugly."

"Well, she is," said Tyrion, with typical candor. "As an ugly person myself, I'm somewhat of an authority."

"And yet somehow I love you anyway," Jaime said, impatient at hearing it again from yet another person. "You're too caught up on looks."

"Says the best-looking man in Texas." Tyrion's smirk made him seem like a mean little gargoyle. "It's a sweet sentiment, but you'll pardon me if it does not have much weight, coming from you."

"That's what Brienne said, too," Jaime muttered. "It doesn't mean I'm wrong, just that you're both bitter."

"We're allowed to be."

"And anyway," Jaime continued, ignoring him, "she seems to get prettier every day. It's the craziest thing."

"Uh huh." Tyrion slung the dishcloth over his shoulder, folded his arms, and fixed his brother with a stare. "Jaime, what is this? What are you doing?"

Jaime pulled his hands from the basin and took the cloth from Tyrion's shoulder, drying off.

"I told you," he said. "I have a second chance. How many people get those? So I'm not going to waste it. I'm going to be the best damned husband and father I can manage, and when I die, I'm going to die knowing I tried hard and did my best, instead of being ashamed of myself for being weak and falling short of what I knew I could be."

Tyrion cleared his throat. "It sounds like coming that close to the gallows has forced a different perspective on you."

"That's the saddest part," said Jaime with a short laugh. "I had this perspective all along. I've always known what the right thing is. It was always just so much easier to do as Father and Cersei said. And since all I ever wanted was to please them, to gain their approval…"

"The path of least resistance," murmured Tyrion.

Jaime nodded. "Never realized how much harder it was to fight against the tide. It makes me appreciate what Brienne has done for me— for us— all the more. It wasn't easy for her to claim me instead of Snow, to take in not only a stranger as a husband, but his children, and a ranch hand who won't go away, as well, but… she never has to wonder what's right or wrong, Tyrion. She just knows."

"It looks like the stars have finally aligned for you," Tyrion said. "Everything has come together."

"Not quite everything." Jaime's smile was wry. "I'm still trying to get her to stop jumping like a terrified rabbit when I go anywhere near her."

"A woman resisting the infamous allure of Jaime Lannister?" Tyrion pretended to gasp. "Say it ain't so."

"Hilarious."

They looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then Tyrion said, "Well, if I'm not needed to save your sorry ass from the noose, then I suppose I can go back to Charleston."

"You should stay for a bit," Jaime said casually, wanting that very much. "Get to know your niece and nephew. If you become bored, you can try to untangle the mess that's sure to arise regarding their inheritance. When Bobby died, it all went to Joffrey, but then he died just a few days later, without a will of his own… there are going to be probate issues."

"I could also see what can be done to overturn your conviction," Tyrion ventured.

"Is that even possible?" He would like to have his name cleared, for Brienne's and the kids' sakes if not for his own— who wanted to be related to a convicted murderer? He wouldn't.

"From what you've said, all they've got on you is hearsay. Out here on the frontier, that's enough to hang a man, but in civilized places, a court needs a bit more to justify it. We can appeal; it'll go up to Austin. It shouldn't be too hard."

"I'd appreciate whatever you could do."

"Then consider it done." They smiled at each other, and for once, it lacked cynicism or sarcasm.

"I will, however, need somewhere else to live while I'm here," said Tyrion at last, "because while this has been a charming evening, and doubtless will be a fun-filled night and morning tomorrow, having to pretend I'm a pleasant person for too long will drive me insane. And I can't answer for whatever Bronn will get up to, but I'm sure it won't be pretty."

"You can stay at the Rock, if you like," offered Jaime. "But it's empty. The servants all left, after I was arrested, and Brienne and I cleaned it out of anything useful the day after we got married."

"Why aren't you living there, instead of being crammed in here like sardines in a tin?"

Jaime shrugged, grabbing the broom. He began sweeping toward the back screen door, then booted it open and swept everything outside before propping the broom in the corner and turning back to his brother.

"It's Brienne's home. Her father's home. They don't want to leave. Can't leave, really, without giving up on the cattle ranching, and that's not something I'd ever ask them to do. I can run the mine from here, just going over once a week or so. And I never liked living at the Rock in the first place."

He looked around at their shabby surroundings. "Besides, it's cozy here, don't you think? Comfortable. I've slept better here this past week than I ever did at the Rock."

"That might have something to do with the fact that there's someone sleeping beside you." Tyrion smirked, amused. "If you've looted the Rock, that means I can replace everything as I like. Perhaps make the place less of a museum and more somewhere a person might actually want to be."

Jaime waved a dismissive hand. "Do whatever you like with it. As far as I'm concerned, the E-Star is my home now. The Rock is Father's. And yours, if you want it. You can even have the horses back so you don't have to rely on whatever swaybacked nags Seaborn can spare."

"Dad, are you and Uncle Tyrion done yet? Do you need help?" Myrcella entered the kitchen and looked around at the tidy room. "Oh, you're all done! Come out with the rest of us, then."

As they joined everyone else on the porch, Jaime snagged a molasses candy and joined Brienne on the porch swing. There was paperwork for the mine he should get to, but in honor of Tyrion's arrival, he decided to slack off for the evening. The night was warm, but not stifling, and his belly was full. The sound of Tyrion's deep voice, as he told an amusing story that was probably a bit risqué for the children but making them giggle happily, was immensely soothing, as was the gentle rocking of the swing, propelled by Brienne's foot in time to the gentle clacking of Myrcella's knitting needles. He closed his eyes and let his muscles soften.

* * *

Brienne VII

Brienne had always considered herself a reasonable person, and so it was very confusing to her when she finally admitted to herself that her thoughts and emotions, of late, were anything but reasonable.

She hadn't started the month out unreasonable, marrying a stranger notwithstanding. Wary, yes. Apprehensive, sure, and who wouldn't be? Taking three new people— four, if one counted Pod— into her home. But they were all getting along with Pa, which had been Brienne's primary concern, and not only pulling their weight, but making her life considerably easier. Pod and Jaime were invaluable help with the ranch and cattle, and Myrcella and Tommen eager to please in doing chores, even if they needed quite a bit of instruction on how to do it properly. Not their fault they hadn't ever been taught.

She was already fond of the children, and even of Pod, who was only a few years older than Myrcella. Jaime, though… he covered his insecurities with humor and, if that didn't work, sarcasm and cutting remarks. Brienne had found that simply staring at him, instead of reacting, worked beautifully for disconcerting him and defusing the situation, because he was not one to carry a grudge. Huffy though he might become, within ten minutes he was back to cracking wise or making another silly joke or, to her consternation, flirting.

Ah, the flirting.

Jaime had apparently decided that he was going to seduce Brienne. To what end, she had no idea, but he took every opportunity to pull off his shirt or, in the case of being private in their bedroom, his entire kit, until he was down to just his skivvies, which covered far less than Brienne felt was safe for her sanity.

The man was _gorgeous_ , perfectly-formed, tall and long-limbed, muscled without being bulky, with golden skin and hair, and eyes that shifted from jade to emerald depending on mood and surroundings. His jawline was a work of art that lost none of its sharpness when covered with stubble or a beard.

And that was just his physical appeal; he had won her over with his personality, as well. Despite Jaime's terrible reputation and his commentary about being dim-witted, he was intelligent and surprisingly sweet. He worked tirelessly with her and Pod, never complaining, and did his share of the housekeeping and cooking without a single word about it being "woman's work". He helped her take care of Pa's needs, treating her father with affection and respect. He had taken to ranching easily, his natural athleticism helping him perform its duties with only a short and shallow learning curve. He loved spending whole days outdoors, loved being in the saddle, loved working with the dogs, loved coming home to his children at the end of a long day.

He seemed to love a lot of things, in fact. It came as a considerable shock when she realized what an immense heart Jaime had, and how thirsty it was for affection. From what he had told her of his family, of how cold and distant the Lannisters were, she could imagine no worse environment for someone of his tender nature. He had been denied not only the love he craved for himself, but the opportunity to express the love he felt, for the entirety of his life.

It seemed cruel to allow her own fears and inhibitions to keep her from giving him what he so unstintingly offered to her. But she did not know how to get past the awkwardness, the discomfort, the humiliation she felt; the conviction she had acquired over the entirety of her lifetime that she was a huge, ugly, shambling thing, looking more like a man than a woman, and utterly repulsive to all who beheld her. She could not overcome the persistent fear that if she relented, if she finally gave in to Jaime's urgings and her own desires, one of two things might happen: either he'd realize he'd made a terrible mistake, and flee; or he would reveal that his attentions were a ruse done as a joke or a trick, or as a way of controlling her.

But he had never given any indication he might be the latter, and in recent days— or nights, as it were— his… very enthusiastic actions and reactions had been such that she was slowly, slowly becoming convinced that he might actually, miraculously, somehow… want her. She desperately hoped so, because her own urges were becoming nigh-impossible to control. He knew she wanted him, and did whatever he could to draw her in. He tried to hold her hand under the table during meals. He kissed her cheek whenever said cheek was within kissing distance. He flirted outrageously, regardless of who was within earshot.

She liked him.

No. It was more than just that.

She _loved_ him.

Which was why it hurt so much when she indulged her admittedly awful urge to eavesdrop. But she couldn't help herself. When he and Tyrion were left in the kitchen to do the washing-up, she pretended to need to check on the chicken coop behind the house, and snuck up to the back door to listen to their conversation.

There was no rationalization for it; she couldn't try to excuse or justify her actions. She was just plain nosy and wanted to hear what they were saying.

Her emotions pitched up and down over the course of the brothers' conversation. Jaime's words went far in soothing her fears and solidifying her trust in him, in trusting his honesty when he told her he wanted to be a real husband to her, and to be a family. Turned out Jaime didn't think much of himself, which was at direct odds to the arrogance that was, apparently, a façade covering up a significant amount of self-loathing.

It was troubling to Brienne, who— even if she lacked any illusions about her own physical appeal— felt pretty good about the person she was. She tried her best to do what was right, to pull her weight. She slept like a rock at night, unburdened by a guilty conscience. If Jaime truly believed so ill of himself, she was starting to understand why he changed position a half-dozen times, talked in his sleep, and woke up with shadows under his eyes.

As little as Jaime thought of himself, however, he seemed to think highly of _her_ , providing his brother with a litany of qualities he perceived her to have, and even a rather dubious assertion that she became better-looking with time. Brienne would give herself a frank once-over in the mirror, the next day, and not notice any improvements, so probably the man was just a bit addled, unused to being treated nicely by a woman, if Cersei's apparent behavior toward him in the past was any indication.

But… he'd done nothing to indicate he was anything but genuine when he indicated he desired her. Brienne knew he liked her, too, that he admired and respected her in addition to wanting to bed her.

 _Maybe he could come, one day, to love me back?_

She had begun to love him that very first day, when he'd asked her to marry him instead of Jon, trying to hard through the bars of his cell, so brave in his desperation. The idea of being freely able to touch him, kiss him, make love to him, made her tremble with longing. The night she had secretly watched him pleasure himself, and then had been helpless to keep from doing the same to herself, had been terrifying and thrilling in equal measures. It had been a revelation in a half-dozen ways, about men and women and him and her and _them_ and— she felt like the universe was a book, and Jaime had helped her turn the page and discover a whole new chapter for her to enjoy.

And then Tyrion mentioned the possibility of appealing Jaime's trial and getting his conviction overturned. Brienne's breath froze in her lungs as she waited for Jaime's response, because… if he was no longer a convicted murderer, he had no need to be married to her. Even though it had been weeks, they hadn't consummated the bond of matrimony. Their marriage could still be annulled.

"I'd appreciate whatever you could do," Jaime replied, and Brienne's heart clenched, and then sank.

 _Well, I have my answer._

It was just typical that, the moment she decided she wanted to go ahead with something, it would become impossible. She had just given herself leave to care about her husband, and it turned out there was an excellent chance he wouldn't even be her husband for long. And wasn't it ridiculous that just when she stopped fighting her feelings for him, he would edge out of her reach?

 _My life is a farce._

She had rubbed her hands over her face, feeling miserable, then ducked back into the shadows when the screen door banged open and Jaime began sweeping the kitchen's dirt and crumbs outside. She scurried around to the front of the house before the others started to wonder what she was up to with the chickens for so long.

Jaime and Tyrion joined them, soon enough, her husband seating himself beside her on the porch swing. She was glad when, almost immediately, Jaime fell asleep beside her. She couldn't shake the wistful feeling that had taken residence in her, the sensation of loss, though she hadn't really _had_ anything in the first place.

She'd told him on the ride home from the trial she would not let herself trudge after him, lovesick and pathetic. It seemed a nigh-unavoidable state, now. He'd be leaving, and the children would go with him, of course. How long could it take? Two months? Three? She just had to hold out until then, had to resist him until then.

No matter how she wanted him— no matter how he, miraculously, might want _her_ — there was no way they could consummate their marriage, not if he were going to be pardoned and pursue an annulment. Brienne could not risk falling pregnant, though the idea of a laughing, green-eyed baby had an appeal that grew stronger as the days passed. Jaime would stay, if she were expecting, and nothing made her flesh crawl more than the prospect of having him tied to her against his will because they shared a child.

She'd endured losing her mother, then Galladon, and coped with her father's illness. She could endure this, too. She would give herself permission to fall apart once he was gone.

 _It was,_ she mused glumly, _a tragic promise to make to one_ _'s self._


	22. Chapter 22

Dany VII

Jon kissed Dany goodbye one last time before heading for the stable. A few minutes later, she lifted her head to peer out the window, watching as he and Ghost cantered down the long, curving drive of the Triple D. She shouldn't linger over the breakfast table like that, but she felt tired that morning, despite her recently-acquired practice of going to bed a scant hour after finishing supper.

Probably she'd get more rest if she _slept_ in the bed at such an early time. Idly, she raised her coffee cup, her lips curling in a satisfied little smile around its rim, as she recalled precisely what had kept her awake until so late the previous night.

Her moment the coffee touched her tongue, however, she grimaced and reflexively committed the unthinkable faux pas of spitting it back out. The cup was nearly full, and the first serving of the day, so she hadn't drunk any at all during the meal. That was odd, in and of itself, because she usually inhaled three or even four cups during the course of a morning. But it was stomach-curdlingly bitter, and seemed oily in the most revolting way possible, and suddenly Dany's stomach rebelled.

 _Oh, gods,_ she thought, panicking. She was nowhere near a chamber pot or a bathroom. She lurched to her feet and toward the French doors, flinging them open and dashing to the edge of the veranda just in time to relieve herself of the porridge and fruit and bacon she had just eaten.

To her chagrin, when she straightened from her undignified hunch, it was to find the gardener not a dozen feet away, standing frozen with his hedge-clippers in hand, eyes wide at the spectacle she had made. With a tiny whimper of humiliation, Dany turned and dashed back inside, but the stink of the coffee was like an ominous cloud overhead. She left the room at a brisk pace, intent on her washstand and tooth powder, but Missandei appeared at her side before she'd climbed even half of the long, curving staircase.

"Miss Daenerys," she said in her usual calm voice, "can I help you?"

Yet again, Dany congratulated herself on the excellence of her servants. Her housekeeper was the epitome of helpful discretion. It made her feel far less embarrassed for the display she had just put on.

"Get rid of the coffee. Air out the dining room." she said. Then, more quietly, "And apologize to the gardener."

Missandei left to do her bidding. Dany continued to her bathroom and made liberal use of the tooth powder. When she exited, it was to find her housekeeper awaiting her in the hallway with a steaming cup in hand.

"Ginger tea," Missandei announced. "Excellent for an unsettled stomach."

Dany took the cup and gulped half still standing there in the hallway. The relief was near-instant, and she felt the tight muscles of her belly relax.

"What was that?" she asked. "I've been ill before, but never like that. It came on so suddenly!"

Missandei gave her a gentle smile. "Your maid has not had to supply you with cloths for your monthlies in some time, has she?"

Dany blinked slowly, feeling like an owl. A _stupid_ owl.

"Is it possible?" she breathed. "Already?"

"Anything is possible, if you try hard enough," was Missandei's bland comment, but Dany heard the teasing underneath: she and Jon had indeed been 'trying hard' since the very first day of their marriage.

"I will go to town and see the doctor," she announced. When Missandei turned a concerned face to her, she conceded, "I'll take the gig instead of riding."

"I'll have the team hitched up," said the housekeeper, and left her.

She went back into the bathroom to splash cool water on her face and make sure her hair was tidy. Downstairs again, Missandei frowned in concern.

"Should you not take someone with you?" the other woman asked. "I can go, or your maid, or one of the hands—"

"No, no, I'll be fine," Dany said. The last thing she wanted was another witness to her malaise. "If it happens again, I can easily… do it… over the side of the gig."

She wrinkled her nose at the idea, but if there were one thing she had learned from all the books she had read about pregnancy, it was that one needed to leave any attachment to one's dignity at the door from the moment of conception until, approximately, the child was in their late teens.

"Would rather not have any witnesses, in that case," she continued. Let her keep at least a sliver of composure as long as she could.

Missandei's trepidation was clear, but she only nodded and watched as the stable boy handed Dany up into the gig.

The drive passed uneventfully, to Dany's relief. In town, she recognized Sansa's rose gray, Lady, standing patiently while her mistress shopped. As Dany tied her team to a post, Sansa exited the post office, smiling down at a slip of paper in her hand.

"Sansa," said Dany, smiling as she approached, watching with interest as her goodsister blushed and hurriedly stuffed the paper into her reticule.

"Dany!" exclaimed Sansa, smiling. "Just here to pick up the mail, like me?"

"Not entirely," Dany hedged. Should she tell Sansa before Jon? "Would you join me for tea at the hotel?"

The other woman picked up on Dany's cagey behavior. "Of course," she murmured. "Tea would be very nice."

Arm-in-arm, they walked down the boardwalk toward the hotel. Dany became aware that every young man they passed stopped what he was doing to watch Sansa's progress. By the way Sansa kept her face down, and the ruddy flush spreading down her throat, she was aware of it.

"Has something happened?" Dany asked, curious. If any of them had been disrespectful to her goodsister, Dany would make them quite regretful.

"Ahaha!" said Sansa, eyes overbright as they entered the hotel. "Well, it might be something about how the last time I was in town, a few days ago, I was, um. I got caught up in, er. And I didn't realize other people had noticed, but they _had_ , and told the ones that… so now I fear that they think me…"

She trailed off when a waitress approached and led them to a table. It, like the one at which Dany had sat with Brienne a month ago, had an excellent view across the street into the blacksmith's shop, where the man himself was laboring away at, it looked like, a plow. Or a thresher? One of those types of things. As always, he wore nothing but low-slung trousers and an apron, and grinned at her when he caught her eye.

Dany smiled back, but Sansa let out a choked little noise and buried her face behind the menu.

"I think you'd better tell me," Dany said mildly, before telling the waitress, "Tea for both, please."

Sansa gave a delicate cough and once the waitress was out of earshot, whispered, "I was seen to stare at several of the men in town. I didn't notice I was even doing it, you know I wouldn't do it on purpose!"

Her eyes were wide and distressed. Dany patted the girl's hand.

"Of course not," she said soothingly. "Why were you staring at them?"

"They're very handsome," Sansa mumbled. "And were not fully dressed at the time."

 _Now, that was interesting._ Dany arched an eyebrow. "You'll need to tell me more."

Sansa averted her gaze with a tinge of desperation. "Well, Dale Seaworth… he was only in shirtsleeves, and lifting heavy things…" she began haltingly. "And then there was Gendry Waters—"

"Say no more," said Dany in perfect comprehension, for hadn't she just been ogling him herself? "I understand completely."

"Do you?" asked Sansa miserably. "No one else does. They all think I'm on the prowl for a new beau, now that Joffrey is gone."

"Aren't you?" The tea arrived. Dany doctored it lightly with sugar and cream and was pleased when it did not make her stomach protest. "There would be no shame if you were. You're a young, pretty woman, of marriageable age. Everyone knows your match with Joffrey was unhappy, so there's no shame in not observing a period of mourning."

"It's not just that, though," said Sansa. She sipped her tea, and when she replaced the cup in its saucer, her hand was trembling, making the china rattle. "I have… I have a secret admirer." She leaned forward, her voice so quiet Dany almost couldn't hear it. "And I have been corresponding with him for some time now."

"How interesting." Had Dany thought Sansa somewhat insipid, before? Her goodsister was proving to have a far more fascinating inner world than Dany had suspected.

"So I was looking at the men because I was wondering which of them it could be. Not… not because I was _ogling_ them."

"Can you not do both?" asked Dany.

Sansa blinked at her with eyes both wide and scandalized. Oh, and confused. Very, very confused.

"You must come to my home soon," Dany told her. "I have some books I think you will enjoy looking at."

" 'Looking at'? Don't you mean 'reading'?"

"I said precisely what I meant."

"Al-alright," Sansa said uncertainly. "Thank you, I will, soon."

Dany smiled at her. "Have you been able to narrow down the candidates?"

Sansa shook her head, disappointment clear. "Just that he works here in town, because he has said he sees me here every time I come for the mail."

"I feel certain it's not Sam Tarly," Dany began, thoughtful as she mentally catalogued the unmarried men working days in Kingsland. "He's smitten with his Gilly. And I doubt it's Dale Seaworth, since he's still mourning his poor wife. I sincerely hope it's not Ramsay Bolton; there's something not right about that boy."

"Agreed," Sansa said fervently. "I'm hopeful it's not a Greyjoy, either."

"Indeed," said Dany. Attractive boys, in their own ways, but terrible slackers. Not at all marriage material. "Well, he's sure to reveal more of his identity, either on purpose or by accident, one of these days."

Sansa drained her teacup and indulged in a moment's unladylike scowling. "I'm just so curious."

"I would be, too," Dany said.

"Speaking of curious…" Sansa's gaze was bright as she surveyed her goodsister. "Why did you come to town, then, if you're not here for the mail?"

"Ah, well…" Dany began, feeling her cheeks warm a little. Jon probably should be the first to know, but… she had never had any friends before. There was something so tempting about discussing such a deeply female thing with another woman. "I think I might be in a delicate condition."

"Already?" Sansa's face was the very picture of delight. "Oh, that's— I'm so pleased— oh, congratulations!"

"I'm not entirely sure, you understand," hedged Dany. "I've come to see the doctor, to be sure."

But Sansa was not hearing any of that. "A baby with Jon's dark curls!" she was whispering happily. "Or your eyes! Oh, it'll be the most adorable baby in Texas! I can't wait!" She launched to her feet, waving at the waitress to settle the bill. She thrust a too-large bill into the woman's hand and turned to where Dany was standing, rather more slowly. "Let's go see Doc Pycelle, right now!"

Dany had to laugh, feeling a rush of affection for her goodsister, grateful Sansa was so delighted, grateful she had a friend to share this hopeful moment with. "Yes, let's."

Out on the boardwalk once more, Kingsland's main street was choked with dust as a wagon pelted down it, driven by a careless Greyjoy eager to reach the saloon, no doubt. Dany fished a handkerchief from her reticule and held it before her face, to keep from breathing in the dust, but got a lungful anyway and began to cough.

"Are you alright?" Sansa inquired.

Dany nodded, her eyes watering, but the coughing would not subside and little silvery dots appeared in her vision. All the strength went abruptly out of her legs, and she began to sink to the boardwalk.

"Oh, no!" Sansa whispered in alarm. "Oh, no!"

She threw her arms around Dany's waist and helped her to sit at a more gentle pace rather than the thumping landing she was sure to have achieved without her.

"I'll get the doctor," Sansa told her, sounding a little panicked. "No, he'll take too long to get here. I'll get someone to bring you to him."

Now that she was off her feet, Dany was feeling much better already, her breath returning to her at last.

"Just give me a few minutes, I'll be fine—" she gasped, but Sansa shot to her feet from kneeling at Dany's side. She ran not to the closest shop— the tailor's— but across the street to the jail.

"Sheriff!" she said breathlessly, braced in the doorway.

Through the open door, Dany saw Clegane leap up from where he'd been sitting behind his desk. He crossed the room to Sansa in two long strides and wrapped his enormous hands around her upper arms.

"What is it?" he demanded, gaze roaming over her in search of injury. "Are you hurt?"

Sansa, Dany noted with interest, brought her own hands up to rest on his broad chest, pale fingers curling around the lapels of his waistcoat. "No, but my goodsister needs help. Can you help her to the doctor?"

He stared down at her a moment longer, plainly relieved, then gave a short nod. They stood there, staring, for a long moment until they noticed they were clutching each other and withdrew their hands. Sansa spun around and dashed back across the street to Dany, the sheriff following at a more sedate pace. Both faces were rather pinker than normal.

"You don't have to carry me, Sheriff," Dany said, feeling embarrassed as her situation started to garner unwelcome eyes and whispers. Being hauled around by a scar-faced behemoth would just make it worse.

"Oh, he won't drop you!" Sansa said, misunderstanding Dany's reticence. "He's very strong and careful."

Her attention was wholly on Dany, and so she did not see the look Clegane gave her, but the depth of sentiment in it took Dany's breath away.

Her suspicion on the day of Eddard Stark's funeral was confirmed: the sheriff was in love with Sansa. And, unless she were mistaken— and how likely was that? Not very, she was quite good at judging people— Sansa was, at the very least, attracted to him in return. _How wonderful._ A rampant desire unfurled within Dany at that moment, completely eclipsing whatever physical discomfort she might have been suffering: the compulsion to match-make.

"How do you know our sheriff is strong and careful?" she therefore asked her goodsister. "Ah, beg pardon. _Very_ strong and careful?"

"He was kind enough to carry me when I— when Joffrey—"

Sheriff Clegane's lip curled in disgust at the mention of the deceased Baratheon. "Wasn't kindness," he muttered, bending and sliding one arm beneath Dany's knees and the other behind her back. In one smooth motion, she was hoisted off the ground and her point of view raised half-a-foot taller than usual.

"Of course it was kindness!" Sansa exclaimed, her face indignant as Clegane began to carry Dany toward the far end of town, where Doc Pycelle's office was found. She had to hurry to keep up with the sheriff's long-legged pace and was practically jogging beside them, her cheeks flushed.

"Sheriff, do slow down," Dany requested, giving him a pat to the brawny shoulder to garner his attention. "My goodsister's chest is heaving." He frowned down at her before, as Dany had expected he would, directing his gaze to Sansa's chest. Said chest, in addition to heaving, was turning a pink to match her face as a blush swept like a tide down her throat to the creamy décolletage revealed by her modest neckline.

But he slowed down. Dany patted his shoulder again, rather as one might reward an obedient hound. He frowned down at her again.

"Wasn't kindness," he repeated as they arrived at the doctor's office. Sansa opened the door and Sheriff Clegane carried Dany through.

"Of course it was kindness," Sansa said again, a stubborn note entering her usually melodic voice. "You've been exceedingly good to me ever since Joffrey…" She trailed off, averting her gaze. "Before then, even." She gave a firm nod, clearly considering the matter settled.

"Oh, my," said Doc Pycelle as he hurried out of the examination room at the rear to the front reception area. "Miss Targaryen? Are you injured?"

"It's Mrs. Snow, now," Sansa was swift to correct him.

"Just so, just so," the doctor agreed, smiling. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Snow?"

"I'm not injured. I just became weak and dizzy for a moment. Sheriff Clegane was _kind_ enough to help me get here."

Her emphasis on the word puzzled the doctor, and made a muscle tick annoyedly in the manly and bearded jaw just above her. Dany smiled.

Doc Pycelle blinked. "You certainly seem in good spirits in spite of it," he commented, gesturing toward the door to the examination room.

"I feel much better already," said Dany. "And I have a suspicion as to what the cause may be."

Clegane entered the small room, filling it with his bulk, and deposited her on a chair before stepping back out into the reception area again.

"I'll go fetch Jon," said Sansa, "now that you're with the doctor." And she dashed away toward her placidly-waiting horse in a whirl of skirts.

"Excuse us, Sheriff," said Doc Pycelle. "I must interview my patient."

Clegane shrugged and turned away, distracted by Sansa's exit. Hands clasped behind his back, he stood at the window, big shoulders tense, as he watched her use the mounting block to climb atop her mare and canter away.

Doc Pycelle closed the door between the rooms. He bestowed upon Dany a smile that did little to counter the impression of drunken unwellness evidenced by the gin blossoms spreading from his bulbous red nose over his cheeks.

"So, my dear," he said in a forcedly avuncular manner, sitting across from her, "you say you became weak and dizzy? Have you spent much time in the sun today? You young ladies, with your corsets." He chuckled. "I see a half-dozen of you every month because of that."

"It is not that," Dany informed him, though secretly she agreed, and had often thought that the risk of scandalizing the town might be worth the freedom and comfort of forgoing the hated corsets. "This morning, after a normal breakfast, I was very suddenly sick. I actually came to town to visit with you today, Doctor, but before I made it from the other side of town to this side, I lost all strength in my limbs and my vision began to spin."

"I see," Doc Pycelle said, an expression of comprehension coming to his face. "How long have you been married, now? A month?"

"Just over, yes."

"And how long has it been since your last indisposition?"

Dany felt her cheeks heat, just a little. It was not entirely comfortable to discuss the matter with a man, even a doctor. "It should have started two or three days ago, I believe."

"I believe you know what my diagnosis will be."

She nodded. "I'm expecting, aren't I?"

"It's still very, very early days, Mrs. Snow. But some women experience symptoms, such as you have, right away." He paused. "Of course, it's also possible that you are just experiencing a delay in onset of your monthly time. That can happen, especially when a lady experiences a bit of excitement, such as you have lately, what with your being married so recently."

"Do you recommend I do anything in particular?"

Doc Pycelle rattled off a list of things that, frankly, sounded difficult and annoying. No horseback riding? Stay off her feet as much as possible? The only thing that sounded remotely good was his entreaty to leave off her corset as much as possible. She would have to have a whole new wardrobe made, since none of her things would fit without the torture device.

"What about countering nausea?"

"Ginger," he replied promptly. "Gingerbread is an excellent breakfast, I have heard."

Dany grimaced. She had not enjoyed the taste of the tea Missandei had given her, but if it kept her from hurling the contents of her stomach at the gardener, eat it she would.

The doctor provided another rapid-fire list of foods to be wary of, and contact him if any appeared. It seemed as if all her favorite things were now forbidden. Dany set her teeth and pondered ways to make her family members sorry they had thrust this fate upon her.

She dug into her reticule to pay Doc Pycelle his fee, which he took with a pleased smile. The rumble of the sheriff's voice outside alerted her to the presence of a new person. Dany wondered if it were Jon, and felt a little thrill of apprehension and excitement in her stomach. Would he be pleased that she was expecting already? She made her cautious way to the door, opening it to find Sansa had returned, but Jon nowhere in sight.

"Oh," she said, unable to keep her disappointment from her voice.

"Jon is out working on the fences again," said Sansa breathlessly, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed, "so Robb rode out to get him. I thought I'd come right back." She paused and smiled knowingly. "I'm so happy you've come to love him already."

Clegane made a sound of disgust. "They hardly know each other," he grumbled. "What's it been, a month?"

"It doesn't have to take a long time to fall in love." Sansa sniffed, frowning at him. She turned haughtily and marched out of the doctor's office. "Sometimes it can happen in an instant."

 _Oh, he knows,_ Dany thought in amusement as she and Clegane followed Sansa outside. _He_ _'_ _s well aware._

The sheriff stared at Sansa with an intensity that was almost frightening, if one did not know it was inspired by devotion instead of anger. Then he looked at Dany, and scowled deeper— somehow— to see the faint curl of humor on her lips. She cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head in Sansa's direction so he could see she was aware of his tender sentiments toward the other girl.

For a split second, an expression of terror crossed his unlovely face, expressing _How do you know?_ as clearly as if he'd said it aloud. In the next moment, however, he was back to scowling. _Don_ _'_ _t tell her,_ the scowl said.

She smiled wider, but it was sympathetic. Understanding. _I won_ _'_ _t,_ she tried to tell him with her eyes. It was not her place to speak of it.

"Find me if you need me again," he grumbled, then clapped on his hat as he departed.

"What a strange man," Sansa murmured, watching him go, only turning back to Dany once he was out of sight. "Don't you think he's a strange man? Impossible to understand."

"On the contrary, I think he makes perfect sense," Dany disagreed. Sheriff Clegane reminded her of nothing so much as a feral dog, abused so long he didn't know what it was like to be treated kindly. Confronted with a buffet of the senses such as the eldest Miss Stark, it was no wonder that he should fall into a quagmire of confused desire.

"Do you know, I considered marrying him for a brief while?" Dany asked casually. Sansa did not have to know that her consideration had been very brief, indeed, lasting all of two minutes, or perhaps even less.

Sansa, for her part, fixed her goodsister with a stare that was half-curious and half-outraged.

"Him? You did? When was this? And why?" She paused, seeming to realize her rapid-fire bout of questions displayed rather more interest in the topic than she should exhibit. She affected an insouciant expression before continuing, "Why did you not make him an offer?"

Dany needed a moment to keep from grinning. "Not long ago. I was very much impressed by how… well, how intensely masculine he is." She made sure her tone was just the slightest bit breathless. "With those big hands and long legs and… and those _shoulders_! Sansa, surely you've noticed as well!"

"The times he carried me, it seemed effortless, and he was so gentle," her goodsister said, seeming a little breathless herself. The memory had her looking somewhat glazed about the eyes. _Yes, Sansa had definitely noticed_. "He made me think of Atlas, able to lift anything."

"His arms look _very_ strong," Dany said encouragingly.

"They are," said Sansa dreamily. "And did you see how he lifted me _and_ the wheeled chair? He didn't strain at _all_." Then she blinked rapidly a few times, coming back to herself. "But he is very rude, and thinks I'm a hopeless imbecile."

Dany's amusement faded. "I'm sure that's not true."

Sansa nodded, looking miserable. "He's always smirking at me. Sometimes he laughs outright." She scowled. "Why can't he be decent enough to lie and pretend like everyone else?" Then she scowled hard when she realized how silly that sounded.

"Well," Dany began, picking her way delicately through the verbal minefield, "I think perhaps he's just unsure how to speak to young ladies and says inappropriate things because he doesn't know what else to do."

 _But I shall give him a talking-to,_ she thought. If he entertained any hopes at all of appealing to Sansa Stark, he would have to take pains to adjust his comportment. No woman wanted to be laughed at, or thought stupid.

"Ah, here's Jon!" Sansa exclaimed, then, and Dany looked up from where she'd been staring at the toes of her boots, lost in thought, to see Ghost almost skid to a halt right outside the doctor's office, Jon leaping down before the horse had entirely stopped. He was dirty and sweaty, his curls springing from his head in a tangle, and looked so dear to her in that moment she felt her eyes sting with sudden tears, ruthlessly blinked away.

"Dany!" he said, and grasped her arms the same way Sheriff Clegane had done to Sansa. Jon's handsome face was sober with concern, his gaze roaming over her face and figure in search of injury. "What is it?"

Sansa bounced on her toes, hands clasped before her, biting her lip to keep from emitting some sort of overjoyed squeal, Dany was sure.

"Now that you're here, Jon, I'll just… go home." She kissed his cheek, then Dany's, and fairly danced over to Lady. Jon stared at her, confused, while his sister mounted and rode away.

"Jon," Dany said, drawing his attention back to her, "I'm fine. Let's go home. I will tell you everything on the way."

He nodded, reluctant, but followed her back onto the street. "I'll tie Ghost to your gig."

"Yes, please," she replied, "and I'll meet you there in just a moment. I just want to thank Sheriff Clegane for his assistance."

Jon frowned but nodded again. Once he was well on his way, leading Ghost toward where Dany's cremellos patiently awaited her return a bit down the street, she made her way to the jail. She stopped in the doorway, observing the sheriff where he sat at his desk, painstakingly writing something on a sheet of stationery.

"Ahem," she said politely, and he jerked in surprise, so closely had he been attending whatever it was he wrote. He put the pen— a fine tortoiseshell-barrelled thing with a gold nib, surprisingly costly for a man of such humble position— down and stood to address her.

"You need something else?" he asked, blunt but not rude… strictly speaking.

"No," she replied. "I just wanted to thank you for your help, earlier. I appreciate it very much."

"You're welcome." The words sound stiff, unpracticed. It was obvious he was not a man much given to pleasantries.

"Also," she continued, her tone purposefully casual, "you might like to take care when speaking with my goodsister. She thinks you dislike her, and that you believe she is stupid."

Clegane blinked. In spite of the rigidity of his scars, he had an emotive face, clearly displaying his every feeling, if one knew what to look for. He was confused, and upset, by her words. "But I don't— she's not—"

"I know," said Dany, with exquisite gentleness. "It might not have been your intent, but that is the impression you have left her with. So, in future, perhaps a lighter touch might be in order."

He stared at her in utter silence, his heavy brow lowered in what another might have perceived as rage, but which Dany felt certain was dismay. Then he gave her a stiff nod. She couldn't keep from smiling; he was _terrible_ at interacting with others. She hoped Sansa was a patient woman.

"I'll say good day to you, then," she told him. He nodded a second time.

She left, hand shading her eyes as she peered into the street for her husband, and found him directly outside, standing beside the gig. "This has been an exciting afternoon."

"For both of us," Jon replied, handing her up into the gig before rounding it and climbing in. "I about died when Robb rode up, saying you'd fallen ill and was with the doctor."

The dust was still bad so she couldn't answer, having to cover her nose and mouth with her handkerchief before they jolted into motion. With a slap of the reins, he set the cremellos to a trot. "So, what happened? You're sure you're well?"

"Quite sure," she said, her voice muffled by the fine batiste. Once they were clear of town, she lowered it and continued. "After you left, this morning, I felt unwell. Once I recovered, I decided to see Doc Pycelle. He confirmed my suspicions."

"Which were?"

Dany pleated and unpleated the handkerchief in her lap, nervous for some reason. "We are going to have a baby," she said softly, gazing down at the twisted fabric.

When Jon was silent, she chanced a look over at him and found him staring at her. He looked a bit like a steer that had just taken a hard blow to the head, stunned and confused, but around the edges… yes. There was joy, too. "You're sure?" he asked, his voice hoarse, rough with emotion.

She felt a smile overtake her, such was her relief that he was pleased, and nodded. He smiled back, and as always, it transformed him, lightening the somber planes of his face. He was handsome at rest, but when he smiled, Dany's heart juddered to a halt.

"A baby," he said, wonderment plain in his voice. "We're going to be parents." He shook his head. "Me, a father. Who ever thought? Not me."

"With your dark curls," she said, repeating Sansa's words from earlier.

"Or your eyes," said Jon, unwittingly parroting his sister as well.

"Or both. I'd love it if he had a bit of both of us, wouldn't you?"

He grinned. "He, huh? You're sure it's a boy, already?"

"Not… not really," said Dany. "It just feels like a boy." She placed her hands on her still-flat belly. "You don't want a boy yet?"

"I want you both safe and healthy," he said immediately. "I don't care if it's a boy or girl. As long as you're both well."

Tears prickled her eyes at his sweetness. "And you don't mind that it's so soon?"

"I'd be surprised if it weren't, to be honest," was his reply, with yet another smile— three smiles in as many minutes! Unprecedented! "The way we've been—"

"Ahem," said Dany, with a stern little glare that had him swallowing a laugh. "Yes. Well."

"And this was the point to our being married, wasn't it?" Jon continued after a moment of silent amusement. "So I'm well on my way to fulfilling my obligation to you."

It was said lightly, but the reminder of their cold bargain sat poorly with Dany. She didn't answer, just looked out at the farmland as they drove by. It was a lovely day, but there were clouds far to the east, looking like they might come boiling over the ridge and give Kingsland a soaking if they were of a notion to do so. Fortunately, they didn't take that notion until she and Jon had arrived home.


	23. Chapter 23

"Jaime." There was a soft caress on his cheek, along his jaw, there and gone in a fleeting moment. "Jaime."

He came awake slowly, drifting on a current of drowsy confusion. Brienne was there, a little smile on her lips as she stood before him. Her hands were in her pockets; had he only imagined them on his face?

"Brienne?"

"It's time to go to sleep," she said. "Come to bed."

Jaime squinted at his surroundings. He and Brienne were the only ones on the porch. A swaying patch of light in the distance illuminated three shapes as they moved across the yard, away from the house: Pod, Tommen, and Bronn off to the barn for the night.

"Oh," he said stupidly. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"You were tired," she said simply, no blame or derision in her tone. Then she quirked a grin at him, there and gone in a flash. "You only snored a little."

"I didn't snore at all," he grumbled, but couldn't help a grin of his own, happy she felt comfortable enough to tease him.

Then Brienne surprised him by holding out a hand, as if to help him up off the swing. He didn't need it, but damned if he'd turn down a chance to actually touch her, at her invitation, no less. He slipped his hand into hers and let her hoist him up. When he was on his feet, they found themselves very close, mere inches separating them.

Her breath was molasses-sweet and she had a strange expression on her homely face, something sad and soft and accepting. He wondered at it, even as he decided to take a chance and kiss her. Just briefly, just lightly, but she didn't stiffen or pull away, and let him press their mouths together. When he drew back, she looked even sadder.

"I'll go help Pa," he said, unsure of what to say in response to it. He'd never kissed a woman and turned her melancholy before. Not that he'd kissed many. "Has he been waiting long?"

"He's already in bed, all taken care of," she said, stepping back and gathering up the mound of Myrcella's knitting from where the girl had left it. "Bronn helped me."

"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "Next time, wake me—"

"Jaime," she interrupted gently, "it's fine that you didn't do it tonight. You don't have to do it every time." She led the way into the house.

Once inside, he shut the door behind him, and they walked to their bedroom.

"No," he insisted, his voice pitched low so as to not disturb Myrcella, Pa, and Tyrion. "I have to do my part. I can't be slacking off. I have to show you that—"

" _Jaime_." Inside their room, she struck a match and lit a lamp by her side of the bed before turning to face him. She still looked sad, but also… tender, in a way, even… affectionate? It had to be a trick of the light. "You don't have to show me anything. You don't have to prove yourself to me."

"I do," he insisted, feeling stubborn. "I want you to know you can trust me."

"I already know," she said. "I do trust you." Now she looked like she was about to cry.

"Brienne," he said, feeling helpless, "what's wrong?"

But she just shook her head and turned away, sitting on the bed to shuck her boots. He turned away, too, to strip down to his drawers, and when he was done, she was already in her old sleep-shirt and under the covers.

When he got into the bed, he tried to be unobtrusive, but he ended up jostling her anyway. "Sorry," he muttered.

"S'fine," she replied, and surprised him by reaching out a hand and patting his wrist.

Even that innocent touch was enough to inflame him. She was so warm, and somehow gentle in spite of her strength. The memory of how she'd comforted him, how her arms had felt around him, how it had been to kiss her just minutes ago, got all tangled up with his body's natural urges, with the result of an incipient erection in no time at all.

He glanced at her, and saw she was still awake, her arms outside the blankets and hands folded primly at her waist. If he stuck a lily in them, she'd have looked like a corpse laid out for a funeral.

"That was quite a surprise, Tyrion's arrival," he said, wanting to keep her from becoming too drowsy.

"Yes," she replied.

"Wasn't expecting that at all."

"No." She cracked an eye to look at him, probably wondering why he was so chatty when it was obviously time to sleep.

He decided he was going to take a chance. She had not left in a scandalized huff, the night before, nor had she even turned away. No, she had watched him, and when she thought he couldn't see, had tasted his spend, and then brought herself off in a way that had shaken the entire bed, though she had taken pains to remain as still as possible. If that was how much she moved when she was trying not to, Jaime's eyes almost crossed at the idea of what she would do when she wasn't trying to hide her reaction. When she would lay spread-out before him, thighs wide for him to lay between, licking or fucking her, and without inhibitions she would writhe and call his name.

The mental image was so strong, so powerful, that Jaime couldn't delay any longer. He pushed the covers down to his knees, then placed his hands on his midriff, resting them lightly, and began to drag them over his skin, one up, one down. He brushed a fingertip over his nipple, making gooseflesh rise; with his other hand, he circled his navel, and his cock started to pulse heavily with arousal.

Flat on his back, curtain drawn aside so there was nothing keeping the moonlight from illuminating the scene he presented. He hadn't even waited long enough for there to be a pretense of him thinking she'd fallen asleep; he knew she was still awake, and _she_ knew that he knew she was awake.

"I know you believe I can't want you," he said, his voice low, intimate. "And I know you don't want to hear what I was thinking about, as we drove home after being married. When I was hard, and you scolded me like a schoolmarm. But I'm going to tell you anyway."

On her side of the bed, she drew in a breath, just a bit harsher than normal, but not quite a gasp.

"I thought of how wet you'd be," he murmured. "Are you wet right now?"

Brienne did not answer, of course. But neither did she flee, and she could have. He had not restrained her in any way. Her side of the bed was closest to the door, so there was nothing barring her from escape. No, she just lay beside him, close enough for him to touch if he reached out even just an inch, perhaps two. She lay there, and unless she had her eyes closed, she watched him.

Jaime was determined to give her a good show.

He pushed his drawers down to reveal his erection, so hard that it thrust skyward, straining for a touch. Hers, preferably, though his own would do. He wrapped his hand around it, and the sensation of heat and pressure was so welcome and needed that he closed his eyes to revel in it for a silent moment. He was very comfortable, laying there on the featherbed, and he would give every penny he owned if, in that moment, Brienne would shuck her shirt and drawers and come straddle him. He pictured her wet flesh parting, gleaming and delicate, a tender pink like the satiny lining of a shell.

"Do you know what I'm thinking now?" he asked softly. "I'm imagining if it were you over me, your long legs on either side as I slid into you, so slick around me…"

Her breath caught again, this time definitely enough to be classified a gasp, but when he glanced at her, her eyes were clamped tightly shut.

"Brienne, _look_ at me." When her eyes opened, he drew his fist slowly from root to tip, his toes curling from the pleasure that burgeoned within him again. He felt hard enough to pound nails. "I need you to look at me."

"Why?" she gasped out.

"I want you to watch me do this." His own voice was unsteady, too, and no surprise, since he was struggling to keep from tearing the covers from her, rolling on top, and thrusting deep.

His head rolled on the pillow and looked directly at her, their gazes catching, magnetic. The look she gave him was almost anguished before she dragged her eyes from his and stared at his body again, at where he was pleasuring himself. Instead of moving his hand, he held it stationary and moved his hips instead, his pelvis undulating up and down as if fucking into a woman, into _Brienne_ , kneeling over him. Her mouth was parted, her cheeks flushed, her eyes brilliant even in the dimness. She met his gaze again. She looked… hungry.

No, she looked _starving_.

For him.

 _She wants me._

The knowledge of it— to have his desire reciprocated, _at last_ — pushed him to teeter at the very edge of rapture.

"I want to feel how hot you are inside," he said, his voice gaining urgency as he strained toward completion. His hand, on his cock, was almost brutal in how hard it gripped. Sensation sparked through his blood, excitement making his breath come in pants and his words were harsh whispers in the quivering hush of their room. "I want to know what you taste like. I want to hear you say my name, say you want me, Brienne, like I want you, _say_ it, Brienne—"

Oh, gods, it was happening, it was right there, it was almost in reach—

" _Jaime_ ," she whispered.

It trembled in the air between them. There was a thrumming, ardent note in how she said it, like he was important, like he _mattered_ to her. Her eyes were huge, glimmering with desire, and he arched, sensation forcing him to break visual contact as his eyes slammed shut. He knew she watched as the tendons of his neck corded with effort, his body moving with brutal speed and force as he came. Waves of bliss battered at him, and the spilled drops of his release were scorching on his belly.

"Brienne," he moaned with each wave. "Brienne, Brienne."

When it was over, he could only lay there, gasping for breath, the room a blur around him as he stared blindly up at the ceiling. There had been more desire for him on Brienne's face than he could ever recall being on Cersei's. His sister had always looked at him in a proprietary way, like one might observe a favored pet. Her approach to lovemaking had been businesslike, matter-of-fact, one more chore— "make sure Jaime is still obligated and attached to me"— to get done for the day. There had never been anything like the near-feral expression Brienne had revealed to him.

As awareness returned to him, Jaime became aware that the bed was moving, much as it had the other night, when Brienne had furtively touched herself. He looked over at her and his lungs seized; she was done with being furtive, it seemed, because while the covers were still pulled up to her waist, he could see the shape of her spread-open legs tenting them, and the way her head was thrown back— the way her chest heaved with every breath— the diamond-hard points of her breasts under her shirt— how her entire body shifted—

"Brienne," he rasped. "Let me touch you," he entreated, and reached out his hand to cup her nearest breast. It had just closed around the small, firm mound when she wrenched away.

"No," she managed to say, eyes still squeezed tightly shut.

"Move the blankets. Let me see you."

" _No,_ " she repeated. "Just… just talk to me."

He was disappointed, but… she wanted to hear his voice, to hear him speak filth to her. That he could do, gladly.

"You'll be so tight when I finally slide into you," he began, pitching his voice low. "I can't wait to feel your legs around my waist."

Her eyes were dark and apprehensive, but they roamed over him all the same, helplessly. She shifted, her shoulder moving, like she was reaching farther, and then she made a guttural sound.

"Wench, did you just put your fingers inside?" Jaime asked hoarsely. Her eyes traveled hungrily over him, but always flew back to meet his. " _Why?_ You don't have to… Brienne, I'm right here. If you need to be filled… let me… I want to… it'll be so _good_ , Brienne…"

Her legs shifted restlessly in reaction to his words, making the covers tremble. She wasn't going to be persuaded, not that night. He had to coax her along slowly.

"How many fingers, Brienne?" he asked, his voice pitched low with need.

"Two," she breathed.

"Use another," he told her. "I'm thicker than only two fingers."

She whimpered, but her arm shifted again, and her head dug back into her pillow.

"That's better, isn't it?" he rasped. "You need more, don't you, wench? Pretend it's my cock instead of your fingers." His voice was more of a purr than anything else. "But I'm longer, Brienne, I'd reach farther, I'd be in you so deep, make you stretch around me and then fill you up with—"

" _Jaime_ ," she keened before biting viciously down on her lip. Muted groans followed, and the covers moved so violently she must have been thrashing about under them. "Jaime, Jaime."

The sound of his name on her lips as she came had desire lashing him, his cock hardening once more, but weariness was starting to drag him down, and he didn't want to chance alienating his skittish young wife.

In her effort to maintain distance between them, somehow Brienne had created a scene of lewdness the likes of which Jaime had only ever thought about, never even considered might one day happen in his presence. It was an activity only done on one's lonesome, or with a paid companion who had both seen and done it all.

Except Brienne was no paid companion, she was a complete innocent. She had no idea that what she had just done was so unusually carnal, so sensuous, so wanton. Even now, as she lay there, catching her breath, eyes shut tight, she didn't look mischievous or sly or anything he'd have expected from a woman who knew what she was about. Brienne just looked sated.

Jaime shifted to the middle of the bed. She slitted him a wary glance.

"What are you—"

He slid an arm beneath her and hauled her against him, aligning their bodies from head to toe.

"Don't fight me," he said when she began to struggle. "Just let me hold you. Nothing more." He grinned. "I need some comforting, after that."

Her cheeks, still flushed, reddened further, but she didn't resist, relaxing and letting him clasp her against him. Slowly, she softened, and after a few minutes, even wrapped her arm around his waist.

"You're wonderful," he whispered. She trembled at his words, so he held her tighter.

"I can't breathe," she said eventually, pushing at his shoulder, so he loosened his embrace.

But he did not let her go.

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Tyrion III

Tyrion was happier than he could express, the next day, when he and Bronn were able to drive away from the E-Star. Not that he was tired of visiting with his brother and niece— it was pleasant to get to know them again after a decade's absence— as well as to make the acquaintance of his nephew and goodsister and… goodfather? Was Mr. Tarth— _Pa_ , as he had insisted Tyrion call him— his goodfather as well as Jaime's?

But quarters were closer than he was comfortable with, and Bronn was chafing against all the good-natured familial cheer and complete lack of 'decent' entertainment, with 'decent' being defined by him as having to do with liquor, gambling, and whores.

And thus a rickety spare wagon was filled with some of the housewares Jaime and Brienne had spirited away in the first place, in order to make the Rock habitable while Tyrion went about furnishing it to his satisfaction, and off they went to set up residence in the Lannister mansion.

Casterly Rock was perched atop the mountain of the same name, which itself housed the mine from which the Lannisters derived the bulk of their wealth. Or had, in past years; Jaime had confided in Tyrion, the mine was mostly played-out and it was due to skillful investing and Tywin's efforts at shipping in San Francisco that the family was wealthy, these days.

Speaking of Tywin… Jaime said he hadn't heard a peep out of their father since before his arrest. He knew Cersei had sent a telegram to Tywin when that had occurred, the day before she herself had lit out of town, and Tyrion had been the happy recipient of their father's imperious command to head west, of course, but ever since then… nothing.

They stopped in town to get the word out that Casterly was in the market for a cook/housekeeper and man-of-all-work. Tyrion inquired once more for telegrams at the post office, and was again told none had come. On a whim, he grabbed all the mail for the Double B that had been languishing in the ranch's cubby for weeks.

Outside, he found what appeared, if the bulgy eyes and whippet-thin build were any indications, a Greyjoy standing with Bronn by the carriage.

"This bloke says he'll do for you up at the Rock," Bronn informed him.

"Theon," the man introduced himself, grimy hand outstretched.

Tyrion shook it gingerly. "You do realize that it would be employment?" he said. "As in, you would be expected to do work? And not merely loll about, drinking all day?"

Theon looked a bit glum at the prospect, but nodded. "Better than riding herd."

"Oh?"

"Sleeping outdoors. Getting rained on. Eating shit food. Rattlesnakes."

"St. Louis," Tyrion added to the litany of failings Theon had apparently suffered through on his past cattle drives, amused.

Theon did not appear to recognize his humor, and nodded. "St. Louis," he agreed. "Horrible city."

Behind him, Bronn rolled his eyes and climbed up onto the carriage's buckboard.

"I'll give you a trial period of three days," Tyrion told Theon.

"I'll get my things and meet you there in an hour," Theon promised, and scampered off.

"That's going to be a mistake," Bronn commented as he slapped the reins and they jolted to a start.

"No doubt, no doubt," Tyrion murmured. "But amusing while it lasts."

The Rock looked forlorn, abandoned as it had been. A towering Victorian monstrosity bedecked with gingerbread moldings and turrets and gables and a widow's walk ringing a prominent cupola, it was amazingly poorly-suited for the surrounding terrain. Central Texas was a spacious land calling for low-slung homes that expanded outward, not stretching to the sky in a bid to make the most of a limited footprint. It sprouted vertically from the already-tall mountain, instead of flowing organically over the ground, and looked every bit as uncomfortable as being a Lannister was: impossibly rich, unbearably proud, ridiculously impervious to common sense.

Bronn barked out a laugh, to see it, having understood all of that even with his deplorably lacking education. Some things just looked _wrong_ , and Casterly Rock was one of them. Tyrion just sighed and dug out the key Jaime had given him.

They hauled in the things they'd need right away and chose which rooms they'd want. Bronn, given leave to choose any bedroom he liked, picked Tywin's, grinning in satisfaction at the luxurious surroundings as he flopped backward onto the immense, ornately carved bed.

Tyrion was unsurprised to find that his room had been acquired, since his departure, by Lancel, who had moved all the furniture around and removed some pieces and added others. Still, it was the most recently cleaned and tended, and still had its mattress and bed linens. It was clear Lancel had departed in a rush, leaving things scattered and askew, but an hour's tidying as Tyrion unpacked put it all to rights.

A clatter out front drew him and Bronn to view the arrival of their new servant. To their surprise, he was not alone, but accompanied by a woman with similar Greyjoyish looks.

"This is my sister, Yara," he said. "She's come to work here, as well, if you'll have her."

"Can she cook?" asked Tyrion.

Theon flushed and looked away. Yara smirked and said, "I'm here to be your man-of-all-work. Theon'll do the cooking and cleaning."

"Did yeh miss the part where it's called _man_ -of-all-work?" Bronn asked, eyeing her boldly. She wore an outfit nearly identical to her brother's: trousers, boots, waistcoat flapping open over her grubby shirt, bandanna knotted carelessly around her brown throat. Her slight figure did not much differ from Theon's, either. With the exception of her hair, which she kept long, they could almost be interchangeable.

"I'm stronger than he is, and he cooks better than I do," she said with a shrug. "Does it really matter which of us has the cock? I don't need one to work in the stable and fix things, and he doesn't need a cunt to wash your drawers."

Tyrion and Bronn stared at her, then slowly turned their heads to exchange a glance with each other before looking back to her.

"She's not wrong," Bronn allowed.

Tyrion sighed. "Fine, fine," he said. "You'll both answer to Bronn, he knows everything."

"That I do," said Bronn complacently, taking over, facing them with hands clasped behind his back. "You'll get room, board, salary, and one day off a week. Yara, you can start by unloadin' the rest of the wagon and puttin' it all away, then doing for the horses. Make sure the stable has what it needs, or get more from the feed store if you must. Theon, figure out what we need in the kitchen, and then go back to town to buy it. We expect three cooked meals a day, laundry done, basic cleanin', and you can hire on more help if you find the house is more than you can handle alone. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Theon. Yara just gave Bronn an insouciant salute and ambled off in the direction of the stables. Satisfied Bronn would handle all mundane details, Tyrion retired to the study to formulate a plan.

Issue the first: was there a possibility of reversing Jaime's conviction? He did not seem to want to wriggle out of his marriage— to Tyrion's bafflement— but neither did he want to lug around a murder conviction the rest of his life. Understandable, Tyrion felt. He would have to go to Austin in person to see what evidence was listed in the judgement of conviction order Judge Baelish had filed.

And hadn't someone mentioned that Ned Stark's bastard had received the same mimicry of justice, only saved by the same contrivance of marrying? He made a mental note to stop by wherever Mr. and Mrs. Snow were residing to see if they wished him to investigate Jon's case, as well. He wouldn't charge Jaime for his efforts, of course, but if there were a few dollars to be made from the other couple, Tyrion was not adverse to taking advantage.

Issue the second: would there be probate issues with Bobby's will and Myrcella's and Tommen's inheritance? Likely. He would have to take a trip, soon, to the Double B and search Bobby's office for a will and any documentation pertaining to it. Perusing the ranch's mail, he found a letter from a California law office declaring Stannis Baratheon's intent to challenge the will, based upon the newfound information that the children were not actually Bobby's get.

 _Wily bastard,_ thought Tyrion, _and greedy._ The Double B wasn't hugely profitable, since Bobby's talent for running it went in adverse proportion to how much of a drunkard he was, and in recent years, he'd been a very great drunkard indeed. Still, the real estate and cattle inventory were worth a fair amount, if resold, or if someone wanted to try making it a lucrative endeavor, everything was ready and waiting for a competent manager. Stannis was doubtless only waiting until the deed was in his hand, and then would auction it off.

 _We'll see about that,_ Tyrion said to himself, and moved on to the last matter needing attention.

Issue the third: why had Tywin failed to communicate with anyone in weeks? It was most unlike his father, who never missed a chance to either order others around nor berate his children for their errors.

He thought carefully about the timeline of when things had happened, and by the time he joined Bronn in the dining room for a not-all-that-bad supper of steak and mashed potatoes and asparagus, he had decided what needed to be done.

"Bronn," he began over a forkful of beef, "have you ever been to San Francisco?"


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note: Thanks for your patience with this story, sorry for the delay in updating. Hope you enjoy the chapter :)**

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Sansa VIII

When the first suitor— Dale Seaworth— arrived, Sansa was surprised and confused. They spent an awkward hour in the parlor, engaging in stilted conversation. It went a bit more smoothly when she offered condolences about his wife, and asked what she had been like. Dale seemed relieved by it, and spoke gladly about the woman he'd loved dearly, and by the time he left, Sansa felt that they had become, if not friends, then friendly acquaintances.

The second suitor arrived the next day, to Sansa's shock and bafflement. Gendry Waters was even handsomer up close than from across the street, Sansa noted, with his bright blue eyes and unruly dark hair. He was wearing a shirt, she saw with intense relief. She also saw that he filled it out very well. She had little interest in him as a beau, but she'd have to be blind not to feel some appreciation for well-developed shoulders and arms such as he had. She'd developed quite an affinity for strong-built men of late…

Sansa was chagrined at the flicker of excitement that always occurred when she thought of the last time she'd seen Sheriff Clegane, when Dany had taken ill in town and he'd carried her to Doc Pycelle. It had been thrilling to watch the muscles of his upper arms bunch so powerfully, straining the cloth of his shirt-sleeves. His forearms had flexed, too, the sinews standing out against the bronzed flesh housing them, and she felt her breath quicken as it had taken to doing every time she thought of him.

Gendry, while a bit taken with the topic of blacksmithery, was not so enraptured by it that he couldn't tell when a person was merely being polite, and cut his visit short to take his leave. As he climbed onto his horse, Arya came out of the barn, gaping at him as she walked across the yard to the main house.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Visiting," Gendry said before tipping his hat to Sansa with a saucy wink and riding away.

Arya had been hostile to Sansa ever since.

The third suitor came the day after Gendry, to Sansa's alarm and dismay.

"You must stay," she whispered to Arya, hand desperate on her sister's sleeve as Ramsay Bolton cantered up the driveway toward where they stood on the porch. "You mustn't leave me alone with him for a moment."

Arya was still cross at her, for reasons she would not reveal, but agreed with a sulky glare, slouched in a chair in the corner while Ramsay watched Sansa with colorless, unblinking eyes. She tried several times to draw him into conversation but without success; he gave single-word answers and then lapsed back into silence, content merely to stare.

Finally the clock struck the hour, and Sansa sprang up as if shot from a cannon. "Thankyouforyourvisit I'msureyouhavethingstodo itwaslovelytoseeyou haveasaferidehome!" she exclaimed, and between her and Arya, they frog-marched Ramsay to and out the door, cowering behind it until he was safely away.

That night, after dinner, she detailed her newfound popularity with the men of Kingsland as humorously as possible to Dear Admirer, wanting him to share in her amusement, but the note she received back shocked her in how coolly he advised her on which of her beaux to choose.

 _You_ _'_ _ve got all the men eating from your hand, it seems. A word of caution: your sister's had her eye on Waters for a year and Bolton's just not right. Seaworth's your best bet; still hung up on his dead wife but a decent sort. Good family, established business. You could do worse._

Furious, she needed three tries before she hit upon a response that expressed her ire without revealing the pitiable attachment she had formed of him.

 _It would seem that your claims of affection are not to be taken as serious if you can so easily advise me on which man to make my husband._

His reply was just as angry.

 _You think I_ _'_ _m not serious? I've shown myself to you in a way I haven't with anyone else in my whole life. I've been a far sight more polite than you can imagine so I don't shock or offend you, but I'm no tame wolf or trained bear you can call to heel. If anything, I'm a wild dog, and I won't have my own words thrown in my face. Not by you._

 _You_ _'_ _re dead wrong if you think it's easy for me to recommend who you should marry. I did it because I want to see you happy and safe, with a good man who'll treat you well. Knowing that someday you'll be another man's wife is the worst pain I've ever felt, and believe me when I say that I know pain, girl._

 _Your skin, your eyes and mouth, your pretty hands and long neck and little waist. Your voice. Your touch. I want all of it. And the hell of it is that I_ _'_ _ll never have any of you, not even a strand of your hair, and it eats at me until I think I'll go crazy from it._

Sansa lowered the pages with hands that trembled after reading it over several times. There was a current of physicality in this last note that had not been present in the others, and she was appalled to admit to herself that the depth of his passion excited her. She was supposed to want a gentle man, wasn't she? With decorous manners and a respectful attitude?

Why, then, was her breathing so shallow to read of the force of Dear Admirer's sentiment for her? To know she'd made him angry? She felt no fear about it. Instead, oddly, she had a vivid recollection of what it had been like when Sheriff Clegane had been so testy at her to go riding at night in search of Jon, and how she'd had to curb an impulse to kiss him…

Sansa cut off her thoughts with an impatient huff. No. It would not do to think about one man when troubled by another. It felt… disloyal, somehow, to Dear Admirer even as it was worrysome to acknowledge her attraction for the sheriff, though she could no longer deny it, not after her conversation with Dany. Her goodsister had exclaimed about various parts of Sheriff Clegane's well-formed person, and even admitted to considering him as a husband! The vicious slash of jealousy that seized Sansa, in that moment, had forced her to see what she'd been refusing to admit for weeks.

She had three— _three_ _—_ suitors, none of whom she wanted to encourage. She was attracted to the sheriff, who was impossible for so very many reasons. She also cared for Dear Admirer, who would not reveal himself to her, instead wallowing in his self-loathing and conviction that he was unworthy of her. If he were so enamored of her, perhaps she could spur him to action?

She wanted him to act, wanted him to do whatever it took to change the course of his life and feel better about himself. Even if this connection between them came to nothing, at least it could drain the guilt he seemed to feel for his sins. He couldn't be as bad as he believed, not if he were aware that what he had done was wrong. He had a conscience, though it might be a bit runty and underdeveloped. Sansa had a bit too _much_ conscience; she was fine with forcing some of it on him.

There was true capacity for fineness of spirit in him. How could she turn away from that, from the opportunity to help him develop it? It seemed too cold and cruel. She couldn't do it. Sansa permitted herself a few frustrated tears, and then set to answering his letter.

 _Dear Admirer,_

 _I cannot sit by while you torment yourself and get nowhere. Sometimes you just need a kick in the hindquarters to get out of your rut. How many times has my sister_ _'_ _s tart speech prodded me to action, when otherwise I would not have done a thing? Not often enough, unfortunately. If I'd listened to Arya and ended my engagement to Joffrey far sooner, he likely would not have had the opportunity to beat me so badly. And he wouldn't have been so agitated that he'd kill my father and Jory._

 _Guilt over my part in their loss grips me every day, over and over. I doubt I_ _'_ _ll ever forgive herself for my weakness, the wish to avoid confrontation, that delayed my breaking off things with Joffrey. It will be a stone I carry around my neck for the rest of my days. So I understand, at least a little, what you are enduring._

 _I am going to be very strict with you: if I deserve better, then_ _be better_ _. Don_ _'_ _t just lament to me how awful you are. Make amends. Fix what you have broken. Become good enough for me._

 _That sounds very arrogant. I assure you, I feel nowhere near as superior as that may appear. Again I say: I am not as excellent as you seem to think I am. I have made terrible mistakes, just as you have. Perhaps more by my inaction than anything, my fear to do what I ought because I was afraid of disapproval. I compare the satisfaction I felt for being praised with the misery I have caused, to myself and so many others, and know what a coward I am._

 _But coward no longer: I now see what I have done, and no longer am I going to shy away from speaking, if that is right and just. I will not remain silent when I see injustice done, or when I know I can correct a problem. I_ _'_ _m a slow learner, it's true, but I do learn. I hope that you are a quicker study than I, and acquire the lesson faster than it has taken me._

 _You have more of me than you may realize: my friendship, my affection, and with this letter, somewhat more than a mere strand of my hair._

 _Affectionately,_

 _Sansa_

She took her embroidery scissors and snipped off a lock of hair from a place where its loss could be easily disguised. Wrapping one end in sky-blue floss, she braided it tightly, then tied it off with more floss and coiled it small enough to fit into the envelope with her letter.

 _It_ _'_ _s just hair,_ she thought grumpily to herself. _It grows back. Why would he think himself not even deserving of that much? Ridiculous man._

 _._

* * *

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Tyrion IV

Tyrion was feeling quite cheerful. The Greyjoy siblings were working out rather well, considering they were, well, Greyjoys. And he was just about to see Bronn onto the train to Abilene, from whence he would travel to Albuquerque, then Flagstaff, and lastly Bakersfield before finally arriving in San Francisco.

"I feel rather nervous, sending you out there alone," Tyrion commented as Yara drove him and Bronn into Kingsland. He let his valet light his cigar and slouched back in the seat as they bumped down the road toward town.

"Because you think I can't handle it, or because you think I'll cause problems?" Bronn asked, smirking around his own cigar.

"Oh, I've no doubt you can handle it," said Tyrion. "I'm just worried about what you'll get up to without my restraining influence."

Bronn's reply: a skeptical, derisive snort. "Of the two of us, which has been arrested the most times?"

Tyrion conceded with an airy wave of his cigar. "Yes, yes, point taken." He took a contemplative puff. "You'll send daily telegrams, even if nothing happens, yes?"

"And more when something does, yes."

"Check on Stannis, too," Tyrion continued. "See if you can find anything on him I can use as leverage to fight his attempt to cut the children out of inheriting the ranch."

Bronn grunted in agreement.

"And for the love of all seven gods, if you see Cersei, don't trust her. If she says the sky is blue, go get a sworn affidavit attesting to it, if you can find a notary she hasn't fucked." Tyrion scowled at the flames dancing in the hearth. "She might try to seduce you. Don't give in. Don't assume you're canny enough to handle her. I don't care if her cunt is lined in twenty-four carat gold, it won't be worth it. As my brother can attest."

"One cunt's much like another, I've found," said Bronn. "Have yet to encounter one that was any better than anyone else's."

In the carriage's front seat, Yara huffed a laugh. "That's not what you said last night."

Tyrion's head swiveled slowly toward Bronn. " _Really_?" he demanded.

Bronn shrugged. "Didn't force you, did I, darling?"

Yara laughed again. "Other way around, if anything."

"That's the spirit," said Tyrion dryly, thinking of Shae once more with a nostalgic sigh as they drew up to the train stop. The porter hopped down, hand outstretched for Bronn's carpet bag, stowing it without a word but only too pleased to accept the coin Tyrion pressed into his hand for his effort.

"Do try not to leave too many dead bodies around," Tyrion said as Bronn climbed up into the train, not entirely joking. Tyrion had made it crystal-clear that, should Bronn's nonchalance toward the sanctity of human life catch up to him, Tyrion had never met him. Bronn had no problem with that, since he'd do the same should Tyrion ever find himself in dire straits. They had no illusions about the role of the other in their lives.

"No promises," had been Bronn's reply, and honestly, that was the best for which one could hope when relying on a mercenary with a murky-at-best concept of morality to act as one's proxy. With a last slashing grin, he disappeared into the train car.

"Now where to?" asked Yara when the train was safely steaming down the track in a westerly direction.

"The Triple D, if you please," instructed Tyrion, and off they set for that ranch.

Tyrion knew it was poor manners to simply show up at the Targaryen ranch without prior notice, but he didn't particularly care; in his experience, forewarned was forearmed, and expecting his arrival might have given the new Mrs. Snow time to refuse his visit. By arriving spontaneously, he was counting on her manners to be better than his own and that she would not send him away with a flea in his ear.

"You want me to stay or go back to town or what?" Yara asked upon their arrival.

"Stay," he said after a moment's thought. "If she gives me the boot, I'll be leaving right away."

She nodded and he made his way up the steps to the front door as she slouched in the buggy seat, tugged her hat over her eyes, and settled in for a nap. A sharp rap on the door had it opening immediately; clearly their arrival had been noted and the staff awaited only his knock.

"Tyrion Lannister," he said by way of introduction to the servant who answered the door, a lovely young thing with eyes that had seen quite a bit more than a girl her age should have, if Tyrion was any judge of humanity. He handed her his business card which she studied with a slight frown. "Esquire."

"I know it says Charleston, but Kingsland is my beloved home town," he lied with a suave grin. "While I'm back, I shall be engaging in a bit of business that might be of interest to Mr. and Mrs. Snow."

"I will see if Mrs. Snow is available," the girl said. Her pretty face was professionally blank, but there was an awareness about her that said he hadn't fooled her for a moment. "Please come in."

She gestured to the variety of seats around the perimeter of the entrance foyer, but did not offer to take his hat before slipping through one of the doors, a clear message for him not to hope too high or get too comfortable.

The housekeeper returned after a minute. "Mrs. Snow will see you in the library. Please come with me."

She passed through the door again, Tyrion at her heels, and led him down a gracefully curving pergola entwined with flower-laden vines. At the end of it was another door, which she opened and motioned for him to enter before her.

"Miz Dany," she said, "Mr. Tyrion Lannister." She glanced down at him, a tiny curl of amusement on her lips. "Esquire."

He doffed his hat to her. "Much appreciated, Miss…?"

"Missandei," she replied. "And you are welcome, sir." She held out a hand for his hat. "I will have your driver come in for a cool drink."

"My thanks." He handed the hat over and then promptly forgot she existed, because he was in the most splendid personal library he'd ever seen. It was three stories tall with every wall, every alcove and nook and cranny, lined with books. Oak ladders on brass rails permitted access to the higher shelves of each story and circular iron staircases, elaborately wrought, snaked from one story to the next.

There were a goodly number of sculptures, too, and paintings hung over books on the shelves, as if the Targaryens had wanted to surround themselves with art but hadn't been willing to sacrifice the real estate if it meant fewer books. Lecterns with arching lamps were distributed randomly throughout the space, each with a book spread open, ready at any moment for its reader to return and continue.

The smell of old leather and dry paper was strong, and Tyrion sneezed twice, fishing his handkerchief from his pocket without missing a beat in his enraptured perusal of his surroundings.

"I've never before been witness to the very moment a man falls in love," said a female voice, and he turned to find a woman standing by a massive, ancient desk deeply carved with the most hideously over-complicated figures and motifs, its patina speaking of an age counted in centuries, not decades.

"I do adore a good collection of books." Tyrion approached her, hand out. "You are Mrs. Daenerys Snow, then?"

"I am."

She shook his hand, and he studied her. She was petite and nicely-curved, with hair so pale it was almost silver and vivid eyes that looked to be… violet?… but that wasn't possible… was it? Her face was lovely, if grave, but when she gave him a polite smile, he saw a hint of a dimple in one cheek. She wore a light gown of sky-blue embroidered with golden buttercups and looked very fresh and young.

"Thank you for meeting with me. I apologize for the lack of notice but my task— the reason I am here— is of a somewhat pressing nature and I felt that you would no more want to waste time than I do."

"I see." She moved toward her desk, gesturing for him to take one of the leather armchairs positioned before it, and sat down behind it. It was clear she had been working there prior to Tyrion's arrival, if the documents scattered across its venerable surface were any indication, as well as the pen laying haphazardly on top of the blotter. As he watched, she took the pen and replaced it in its stand, then folded her hands and gazed with limpid patience. "And your task would be what?"

"I understand you and your husband have the same situation as my brother, Jaime Lannister, and his wife: both Mr. Snow and Jaime were saved at the eleventh hour by women who deigned to wed them in exchange for their lives."

Not a muscle moved, not a finger shifted. Tyrion had no indication how his overture was being received. He waited.

Finally, she spoke. "I would prefer to have this discussion with my husband present, since it concerns him as well."

"Of course." He paused, but when she said no more, he continued, "I am at your service."

But he meant, _how about a hint of when that will be, Your Highness,_ and she understood it, because the severe line of her mouth softened into what was almost a tiny smirk.

"If you would be so good to wait a short while until his return, you can take supper with us and we can speak of it then."

That, he had not expected. "Very kind of you, Mrs. Snow," he murmured. "Thank you."

She nodded, as gracious and aloof as a queen. "If you promise not to disturb me, you are welcome to remain in the library with me."

"Yes, please!" Tyrion knew his eyes were shining like a child's on Sevenmas Eve, but… to hell with it. The library was glorious and he wasn't ashamed if someone knew he was in raptures to be there. Sliding off his chair, he began to roam around, dimly aware that Daenerys Snow had resumed her work when he heard the scritching of pen on paper behind him.

There were leather-bound volumes of significant pedigree and import cheek-by-jowl with the cheapest, most lurid penny dreadfuls available. Catullus and Ovid kept company with America's own Poe and Twain without prejudice. As he wandered about, he peered up at the books on the lecterns, and almost fell over with surprise to see one featuring some very graphic images.

He clambered up on the stool before it and indulged in a nice long stare. The young lady depicted had rather a lot of the look of Shae, and he wondered how his dear girl was doing without him, back in Charleston. Longing for her made him rue his generosity in offering his help to his brother, because it was becoming clear that he would be spending more than a few mere weeks in Texas, the way things were bound to go. Perhaps he could lure Shae to join him here…?

A hand reached to clap the book shut, almost on Tyrion's nose, and he jerked back to find a handsome young man standing by the lectern, his arrival gone unnoticed, so distracted had Tyrion been with his prurient musings.

"Jon Snow," he said, "unless I'm wrong."

"You're not," said Jon, and put out his hand. "How long has it been?"

"Over ten years." Tyrion surveyed him. Dusty and rumpled after a day's work, Tyrion could easily see how the boy he'd known had grown into the man before him. He was quite a bit darker than his father, but the face was pure Ned, and there was a solidity in his presence that said Jon had inherited more than just his father's features.

"I was sorry to hear about your father," he said, and found he meant it. Eddard Stark had been the most boring man Tyrion had ever met, but he'd been boring and _decent_ , and hadn't deserved what that little shit Joffrey had done to him. "My condolences."

Jon's face contorted in a brief spasm of grief. "Thank you."

He stepped over to where his wife had stood from behind the desk and surprised Tyrion by winding an arm around her waist and giving her a tender kiss right on the mouth. Tyrion would not have thought the frosty missus to be much receptive of having her sweaty, dirty husband put his paws on her in front of company, but the way she gazed up into Jon's eyes revealed that, no, she didn't mind it one bit.

"To what do we owe the honor?" asked Jon. "Missandei says you're staying to supper?"

"Mr. Lannister—"

"Tyrion, please, Miz Daenerys."

"— _Tyrion_ came to discuss the circumstances of our marriage," said Daenerys, "since it is so similar to that of his brother and goodsister."

Jon looked intrigued by that, but only said, "I see." Then, "I need a few minutes to clean up. I'll be back very soon."

"Would you care for a drink while we wait, Mr. Lannister?" asked Daenerys as her husband left the room. "I have a lovely amontillado you might enjoy."

He perked up at that. "I would, thank you."

She made her way to a bookcase and, with a light pull, hefted it to swing open and reveal a full bar hidden in the recess behind it. Tyrion, having already lost his heart to the library, now lost the entirety of his soul to it.

She poured the sherry into a tiny crystal glass, delicately limned with gold at the rim, and he took it with the respect such a thing deserved, sipping reverently as the dryness of it prickled on his tongue. She poured some for herself, as well, and sat in the armchair across from his to survey him with a leisurely eye.

"So, Charleston," she began. "I have controlling interest in a fabric mill there." She sipped her sherry and ran a hand over the fine batiste of her frock. "It does beautiful work, I think."

"It does," he agreed cautiously.

"And business is good there? You have no shortage of clients?"

"I do alright." _Where was she going with this?_

"I am well-acquainted with attorneys," Daenerys commented. "So I know you are not here out of the goodness of your heart." She tilted her head, as if waiting for him to deny it. He did not. "What compensation do you have in mind?"

He did like a woman who cut to the chase. "Five dollars per diem, plus any travel costs and document fees."

A pale eyebrow lifted. "You think highly of the value of your services."

He shrugged. "It's either me or Orton Merryweather."

Merryweather was a fine attorney in his field— that of the legality of real property— but that was all he could do, and everyone knew it.

But she only smiled. "I could send for someone from Austin. They would be here by suppertime tomorrow."

Tyrion gave a careless shrug, though inwardly he was ruing having forgotten that, with her money, she could probably have a lawyer in Kingsland by _breakfast_ tomorrow.

"Ah, but none of them would be as motivated as myself, since I have a personal connection due to my brother's own predicament."

Daenerys tilted her head to one side, and a silvery curl dropped forward to caress her shoulder. She was lovely in the chilly way that the marble statues scattered about the library were lovely, and she didn't even have any of that stone's veining to liven her up a bit. He wondered if Jon Snow knew any tricks to warm her blood.

"Does your brother feel himself in a predicament?" she asked.

"My brother feels that the sun shines not from the sky, but from my goodsister's eyes," he quipped. "Unexpected, especially to my goodsister herself."

For the first time, warmth touched her gaze. "I am glad to hear it," she said. "Brienne is a good woman and deserves the best."

"Jaime is a good man, in spite of what most believe," Tyrion said. "And becoming a better one daily, I believe."

"That is all one can hope for," she allowed.

Jon returned, then, looking far more presentable, his damp hair falling into wild ringlets.

"I'm starved," he said, "and Missandei tells me everything's ready."

Daenerys led them back along the pergola to the main part of the house, to a dining room with French blue damask wallpaper and crisply white-painted wainscoting and an oval mahogany table laden with a sumptuous meal. The gilded crystal chandelier overhead threw sparks and rainbows around the room, dazzling the eyes. It was in marked contrast to the simpler fare he was having at the Rock and the humbler surroundings of the E-Star.

 _I have missed civilization so much._ He thought wistfully of Shae once more, and dug into his boeuf en croûte.


	25. Chapter 25

Brienne VII

Brienne and Jaime were already heading back to the house for lunch when Frankie approached, trying to herd them back even more quickly, yipping in reproach when he perceived them lollygagging.

They exchanged a look. Jaime shrugged.

"Last time, it was only Tyrion," he said. "But…"

"But what if something really is wrong?" she finished. They lost nothing by hurrying, and so spurred their mounts to a gallop.

That morning, Myrcella and Tommen had gone to school with the Starks, their first day taking lessons with the rest of the town's children. They'd been excited, touchingly so, wondering aloud how long it might take for them to make friends and whether their governess had taught them the same things or if they would be behind the others. Brienne had grave misgivings about the entire thing, but they insisted they wanted to try, and she could only admire their courage, even as she dreaded the heartbreak she was sure would ensue.

When she and Jaime arrived in the yard between the house, corral, and barn, dust was still kicked-up from the arrival of a wagon, and the front porch was full of Starks. Tommen's face was red and angry, and Myrcella was sitting in Pa's lap on his wheeled chair, her slim shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Pa's hand was shaky, but he was patting her narrow back as best he could.

Jaime was off his horse before it had come to a full stop. "Myrcella?" he demanded. "Tommen?"

She hurled herself at him, driving a faint 'oof' from him at the impact. His arms came around his daughter and he tucked her head under his chin, hand in her golden hair, the other rubbing her back. "What happened?" he asked, mystified and concerned. "Tommen?"

Brienne had followed more slowly, and now approached the boy, who looked only a few seconds away from an outburst of his own. She held out an arm to him, and he came to her with gratitude plain on his features, hiding his face against her.

"Robb," she said, her voice low but firm. "What happened?"

The eldest Stark looked uncomfortable and angry. Not as angry as Arya, however; she was pacing back and forth along the porch, muttering angrily. Bran and Rickon were quiet, but both looked upset as well. Brienne peered more closely at Arya and saw that her blouse was torn, the split skirt she wore as her sole concession to feminine attire was streaked with dirt, and she had the beginning of a prodigious fat lip.

Brienne then looked at Rickon, and noticed a bruise starting to rise around his left eye. It would doubtless be spectacularly purple by the next morning. She sighed, having figured it out.

"It didn't go well at school," she said. "Someone said something rude to Myrcella or Tommen, Arya and Rickon walloped them for it, and you all left early to keep from causing more trouble." She gazed around the group. "Am I right?"

"Mostly," Bran said. "It was… bad from the very beginning, lots of staring and whispering, but no one said anything outright until mid-morning. Myrcella went out to use the necessary—" here, he blushed to mention such an indelicate thing about a girl, but plowed on— "and when she tried to come back, the older girls wouldn't let her in."

"They said she and Tommen are the products of sin," Arya hissed.

"Foul and filthy," added Rickon, sounding every bit as bloodthirsty as his sister. He and Tommen were the same age and Tommen had said they were friends; doubtless this was why the youngest Stark was so incensed, but Myrcella and Arya were not especially close, having little in common. Probably Arya was just furious at the mistreatment of any vulnerable person. Brienne couldn't blame her; her own temper was seething through her veins, and the urge was strong to wreak a little mayhem herself.

"And then some of the other students began to agree, told them they'd dirty the school by stepping into it again," Bran continued in a low, regretful tone.

"Then Arya lost her temper and tackled the girls to the floor," Rickon said, no small amount of glee in his voice. "Got in a few good licks, too, didn't you?"

Arya didn't reply, but she flashed a wicked grin at them all before returning to pacing.

"And then Rickon picked a fight with the boys who were talking out," said Bran. "So I went outside to get help. I knew Robb was to come into town to pick up feed and saw he was there and fetched him."

"I went right away," said Robb, taking up the reins of the story. He paused, clearly unhappy to keep going. "I tried to calm everyone down, but Miz Roelle said that she can't have such disruptions in her school. I didn't think talking would do anything but make it worse, at that point, so I just got everyone out of there and came right here."

"You did the right thing," Brienne said tiredly. Talking wouldn't accomplish anything when people were determined to be ugly. Probably just make the whole thing worse.

"Miz Roelle is the teacher?" asked Jaime. He reached out his other arm for his son and Tommen detached himself from Brienne to go to him.

"Yes," Brienne replied, her tone grim, and she exchanged a weary look with her father, for she too had been on the sharp side of Miz Roelle's tongue during her years of schooling. Miz Roelle had thought nothing of sharing her low opinion of Brienne's looks and prospects for marriage, loudly and in front of the entirety of the school's pupils.

Robb, catching the Tarths' exchange, glanced away, uncomfortable; he had been there, witnessed much of it firsthand when he and Brienne and Jon had attended school together, though he and his brother had been a few years behind her.

"She won't be for long," said Jaime. Brienne shot him an alarmed glance, which he returned with a wide, nasty smile. "Don't worry, wench, I won't lay a fingertip on the old b— bird," he hastily corrected, when he remembered young ladies were present. "Lannisters have other means of repaying debts, you know."

"I thought you didn't want to be a Lannister anymore," she blurted in response, before remembering that she wasn't supposed to have heard that, had only learned of it due to her snooping during his conversation with Tyrion.

He didn't seem to realize her lapse, though, for which she was immensely grateful, and nodded thoughtfully.

"True," he allowed, "but there's nothing that says I can't be more Tarthlike _after_ I handle this."

"Just— just leave it," Myrcella whispered, pulling a bit away from her father. "Making her miserable won't change anything. Nothing will be better."

"We'll _feel_ better," said Jaime, the light of battle in his eyes.

"And then what?" asked Brienne, but gently. "We'll have cost that awful woman her livelihood, disrupted the education of three dozen students, angered their parents… and over an issue that will always be upsetting, and which will never change."

Jaime stared at her over his children's heads. She watched as his righteous ire faded, turning to resignation. "This is my fault," he said. "I am— I'm so sorry. Myrcella, Tommen. I'm sorry."

"Just your— fault?" asked Pa. He looked grim, but still there was that twinkle in his blue eyes. "No— help?"

Brienne frowned until she caught his meaning, and then had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. No, Jaime hadn't brought this upon them all by himself. Cersei had surely had just as much a hand as he in their predicament; more, possibly, since there were ways to keep from catching a man's seed, and ways of uprooting it if it had taken hold, and she had used none of them.

To her surprise, and stifled delight, Jaime blushed, just a little. "I… might have had some help, yes," he muttered.

Robb coughed, clearly unhappy with such a topic being had not only in mixed company, but with children present, even though those children were not only well aware of the situation but some of whom were the living results of it.

"Will Miz Roelle cause trouble with your mother?" Jaime asked him. "I'll pay a call today, apologize to her—"

"No!" exclaimed all four Starks and Brienne.

"No," repeated Robb, offering a wan smile. "No, I don't think that would be… helpful."

That was his diplomatic way of saying that Catelyn would likely shoot Jaime on sight. Brienne had known the woman over a decade and was not blind to her faults. Intractability and a judgmental nature were two of them.

"Let us know if there's anything we can do to help, then," Brienne told Robb, and he nodded, touching his hat brim.

"Let's go," he told his siblings, who obligingly went to clamber into the wagon. Before he followed them down the porch steps to where Grey Wind was waiting patiently, he stopped to address the Lannister children.

"I'm sorry," he told them quietly. "You don't deserve that. You know none of us Starks feel that way."

Tommen nodded and, just like a little man, put out his hand to shake. Robb pumped it twice before reaching for Jaime's hand as well. Then he turned to Myrcella, who had yet to excavate herself from the shelter of her father's chest. "Myrcy?"

She straightened, bravely squaring her shoulders as if facing a firing squad. She left behind a soaked spot on Jaime's shirt, and as they all watched, two more tears coursed down her flushed cheeks. Brienne recalled that Myrcella had a powerful infatuation for Robb. _The poor girl must be wishing the earth could swallow her forever,_ she thought with a pang.

"Thank you, Robb," Myrcella replied to him, her voice almost inaudible, but she held her hand out to him like a queen bestowing a favor upon a hopeful subject, even with reddened eyes and mussed hair.

Robb took her hand in his but didn't shake it; looked, in fact, about to place a kiss on it, like a hopeful subject to his queen. But he ended up just holding it for a moment before letting go. He nodded; she nodded back. He left, striding across the yard and leaping onto Grey Wind. Wheeling the stallion about, he rode off. Arya slapped the ribbons on the team pulling their wagon and followed him down the drive.

Myrcella wiped her face with her fingers. "I'm glad Pod wasn't here for this," she murmured. Pod was down the back 40 that day, making sure none of the cows had calved without them knowing of it. "He'd have felt awful."

"He'll find out soon," said Tommen, sounding glum. "And then he'll feel awful."

"We all feel awful," said Brienne. "But we'll get over it." When they all looked at her in surprise, she shrugged. "What other choice do we have?"

"Ig— nore— pain" began Pa, but couldn't manage the rest, so Brienne did it for him.

"Ignore pain. Either it will go away, or you will." It was a common saying in their family.

Jaime's smile was small, but not forced. "Is that the secret to the famous Tarth stoicism?"

"Yes," Pa said, so clearly that it made everyone laugh, thankfully breaking the tension.

"Let's have lunch," said Brienne, beginning to herd her little family inside. "And we'll make something special for supper, too. Tommen, how far did you get with the dewberries yesterday? Pick enough for a cobbler, do you think?"

.

.

The rest of the day was subdued. Pod, as expected, was upset to learn what had occurred in town, an uncharacteristic expression of anger on his usually placid face. Didn't stop him from having second helpings of everything, though.

Brienne was almost pathetically happy when it was late enough to go to bed, fully ready for the day to end. Jaime had been nearly silent, his face drawn and the smiles mustered for his children's sakes weak and transparent.

As they changed for bed, a quick glance in his direction told her he was preoccupied, troubled, withdrawn. He lay down beside her but didn't bother to pull the covers over himself, seeming too exhausted to bother or even manage it. He looked as haggard as the day she'd married him, and just like that day, her heart— wholly his by now— reached out to offer him comfort.

"Do you want— would it help—" Brienne's words stumbled to a halt, and so she just held out her arms.

Jaime shot her a grateful glance before easing into her embrace, his head nestling under her chin and his arm coming around her waist. After a moment, his leg came around hers, too, and then he was wound about her like a creeping vine. His breath against her throat was warm, and he hummed in satisfaction as their bodies relaxed fully against each other.

"Thank you," he murmured, rubbing his nose against her collarbone with what Brienne could have sworn was affection.

"Of course," she replied, a little taken aback by his gratitude, and ashamed that she'd been so cool to him that he'd consider it a favor to receive comfort from his own wife. "You don't— I'm sorry for making you feel like you have to thank me for something like this."

He moved a little away so he could look her in the face, brows drawn together.

"I mean," she continued, a little desperately, "We're— I'm your wife. It's— it should be normal for me to help you feel better when you're unhappy. You're— you've been kind, to me, when I was sad, so it's the least I can do to—"

Jaime's expression became resigned. "You're just returning the favor." He smiled, but it was awful, bitter and self-loathing. "What does it say about me that even though you're only doing your duty, I'll still take it, gladly?"

He returned his head to her shoulder, but there was tension in him, now.

"No, that's— I didn't mean it that way," Brienne protested, cursing her nervousness and inability to express herself well, especially to Jaime. Her stomach twisted in dismay, that she'd hurt him— as she clearly had— and that he was despising himself again.

"It's fine, Brienne," he said tiredly. "I understand."

"No, I don't think you do." Her voice was stronger, now that she had the fire of conviction in her. She was going to explain herself properly, and make him feel better instead of worse, if it killed her. "Jaime."

"Yes, Brienne?" He lifted his head again to look her in the eye, and his tone was dry, teasing. But she knew him by now. She knew he was hiding behind his humor, again, to conceal what he felt.

"You _don_ _'t_ understand. I didn't mean anything about duty or returning favors. I meant that we're in this together—" for as long as their marriage endured, at least— "and we're going to help each other because it's what husbands and wives _do_ , not out of duty but because we _want_ to."

His face hadn't moved a muscle as she spoke; she felt her surety fading with each word, but plowed doggedly on.

"And just like you were kind to me when I was upset, because you wanted to be… now that you need kindness back, I'm going to give it to you because I want to. Because I want you to feel better. I— I don't like when you're unhappy."

He didn't reply to that, just stared at her, bright green gaze roaming over her face as if he were scouring her features for any sign that he could truly believe her words. She certainly hoped he found her trustworthy, because she had meant the words, completely. After several long and awkward moments, he smiled again, and this time, it was one of his genuine smiles, a thing of true beauty that made that stabbing sensation begin in her chest once more.

She'd begun to recognize it as desire, because even she was not so dim-witted that she could not recognize how it was invariably followed by a heated awareness between her legs and a speeding of her breath, and then by a tightening of her nipples and rush of dampness at the very center of her.

"Ah," Jaime said softly, and she realized he must have seen something of her arousal on her face, because she felt him stiffen against her thigh, where he lay half-over her. The feel of his erection, hard and hot, made that stab of desire occur again, this time streaking from breastbone down to where she was heating and growing slick for him. Her hips, having a mind of their own, it would seem, pressed back against him without any direction from her whatsoever.

Brienne watched in amazement and confused lust as his pupils spread, leaving just a thin ring of emerald. She had only the briefest moment to wonder at it before he lunged forward, capturing her lips with his own.

 _Oh. Oh, gods._ Had she been nervous about this? Reluctant? She could not recall a single reason why. There was nothing objectionable about kissing Jaime, nothing at all, and she felt grave regret at whatever misguided fears had caused her to delay it.

His lips were soft and warm, and he rubbed them insistently against hers, then used them to open her mouth for his tongue. Brienne knew this sort of kissing was common, but had always thought it looked soggy and distasteful. Now, praise the Seven, she was able to say that it was sleek and hot and the stabbing was not so much a stabbing anymore so much as a constant pulsing ache, and it had spread to encompass her breasts as well, making them feel almost sore, needing to be rubbed and soothed.

Jaime groaned into her mouth, and the sound cleared a bit of the haze in her head, so that she became aware she'd taken his hand and pressed it to her chest, shaping it around the slight curve of her breast, tightly enough that his palm was abrading her nipple even through the soft cotton of her sleep-shirt.

Brienne had the novel experience of being mortified at the same time as she continued to engage in the activity which had mortified her; she arched into the cup of his palm, and even found the courage to dart her own tongue into his mouth instead of just meeting its foray into hers. Jaime groaned again, and his fingertips sent darts of sensation over her skin as he hastened to unbutton her shirt, then peel it wide open to expose her chest.

He tore his lips from hers, and for several seconds they just panted at each other. He looked almost ethereally handsome, eyes dark and glittering, cheeks flushed and mouth swollen. Then his golden head descended, and he took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.

Brienne arched again, emitting a shocked moan, and then another when his teeth found the tight bud of her nipple, worrying it lightly. "Ah! Jaime!" she thought she cried out, not sure, really, her head swimming with few solid ideas, only sensations and impressions as pleasure wracked her.

His thigh came up between her own, and the pressure against her center was so welcome she ground down against him, hissing when her smallclothes— soaked with her arousal— dragged in an absolutely gorgeous way through her folds and against the stiff nub that had begun to demand attention.

Jaime left her breast and claimed her lips again, in a deep, thrusting kiss that had her glad she was already laying down, or else she would have collapsed to the ground. He slid his hand down into her smallclothes and between her legs, and then it was his turn to moan, because the calloused pads of his fingers encountered the drenched hair and swelling lips of her slit.

Brienne didn't care, anymore, if she seemed wanton or unseemly or demanding or needy. All she knew was that Jaime— her husband, _hers_ , the only man who'd ever made her feel anything like this— was giving her this beauty, this glory, and she wanted more of it. She drew one knee up, and then let it fall open, spreading herself for his exploration, offering herself to him.

His breath became ragged. "Brienne," he whispered against her mouth, then began to lay a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her throat. His fingers skated lightly— too lightly— over the crown of her sex to down where she welled with moisture, circling her entrance until she felt fevered, desperate, tilting her hips for more of his touch. He pressed a finger into her slowly, so slowly, and the welcome intrusion made her breath catch. A second finger followed and she threw back her head, gasping his name and shimmying against him.

Jaime began stroking inside of her, rutting his cock against her hip in the same rhythm. Brienne's breath sawed in and out. One arm was around his back; she ran her palm over the rippling muscles of his shoulders, then along his spine and to his smallclothes, which she shoved down until she could cup the muscled rise of his backside.

 _Oh, how marvelous,_ she thought hazily. But there was the matter of her other hand, and how she wasn't doing anything with it. She brought that hand up to frame his cheek, to rake through his hair, to slide down his chest and ridged belly to where his erection was throbbing so insistently.

" _AhBrienneyes_ ," he moaned when she curled her fingers around it.

She sucked in a breath, shocked at the feel and heft of it, weightier than she had expected, and impossibly silken despite the underlying solidity. The smooth, rounded tip was damp. Brienne wondered if that dampness would taste the same as when he had come, days earlier, and brought her hand up to lap at her thumb, where she had collected a droplet of it. Jaime's eyes were bright as he followed the motion, and then fluttered closed at the sight of her licking it off.

"I'm so hard for you," he breathed, the words so soft they were more a suggestion than a sound, but they made her pelvis arch and his fingers sink even more deeply into her.

"I'm… for you…" Brienne attempted, but could not bring herself to say the words, even as the tang of him lingered on her tongue. Thankfully, Jaime was curtailed by no such inhibitions.

"Wet? Yes, thank the gods, you are," he murmured against her nipple just before sucking it between his lips again, and then there was a sensation of pressure where he was plying her so sweetly with his hand, a faint sting as she stretched around a third finger. A sound escaped her, of pure want; her hand tightened around his thick shaft, and then it was his turn to moan.

Jaime withdrew his fingers, making her groan at their loss, to rake her smallclothes down her legs. He shoved his own off and his knee shifted, pushing hers wider, and he pulled from her grasp as he moved to settle his hips into the bracket of her thighs. The heated column of his cock glided in a long, slick stroke through the spread center of her, and panic struggled free of the muffling haze of her desire.

"Not— not that," she managed to gasp. "Not yet."

He lifted his head, her nipple releasing from his mouth with a pop, and stared at her with eyes that had gone a bit wild.

"You're going to make me stop?" The words sounded torn from him. His body, frozen over her, trembled from the effort of holding himself back.

"Just from that," she panted, her hand going down to encircle him once more, grasping firmly as she drew her fist from root to tip.

Jaime fell back to her side, his breathing harsh and his face perplexed, but even then, his pelvis kept flexing minutely, unable to resist seeking stimulation. It was intensely erotic to Brienne, watching him thrust into the air, and it sent eddies of heat and lust through her.

" _Only_ that," she told him. "Anything but that."

His eyes flared again. " _Any_ thing?"

She swallowed hard. "Anything."

"Oh, Brienne," he murmured, then nosed around her breasts once more. "You don't know what you've just gotten yourself into." He followed the tracery of blue veins beneath her skin with the tip of his tongue, mouth teasing and nipping at the hard points until Brienne was arching under him again.

Past the faint hills of her ribs, beyond the jut of her hip bone, he curved a proprietary hand over the fair curls at the join of her legs before shifting between them once more, this time wedging his shoulders into the V of her thighs, instead of his hips. One forefinger, then the other, trailed from top to bottom of her seam as if in idle curiosity before parting her. "Have you got a pillow ready?"

"For— for what?" she asked breathlessly, stunned and horrified and near-mad with anticipation for what she was terrified— hopeful— he would do next.

"To keep everyone from hearing you scream," he said, and ran the blade of his tongue over her in a lazy swipe.

She barely got the pillow over her face in time. The strangeness of the pleasure, the very shock of it, was what tore the harsh sound from her throat, more than the pleasure itself. Soft, his tongue was so _soft_ , wet and velvety as it explored her, and it was no time at all until she was shaking so hard he had to grasp her waist to keep from twisting away from his mouth. She screamed into the pillow, her body seizing, buffeted by waves of rapture.

"That was good, Brienne," he murmured against her thigh when she calmed, drawing the flesh of it into his mouth and releasing to show a plum-red mark. "But I think you can do it again."

"Again?" Brienne stared overhead at the whitewashed ceiling, her breathing ragged and body still twitching.

"Mm-hm," he confirmed, leaving a matching love-bite on the other thigh, then leaning back a little to admire the symmetry of his work. "Maybe even twice more."

"B-but what about you?" she said, a trifle desperately, wanting to deflect his attention, because she was positive she'd not survive another cataclysm like that so soon after the first. She propped herself up on her elbows and stared down at where he'd ensconced himself. His hips were pulsing against the bed, had been the entire time, she was sure, and though he was feigning a casual attitude, his breathing was quick and there was a faint tremor to his hands where they still held her waist.

"Can I… I want to do that to you," she said, pulling her legs up before curling them to the side, making room for him next to her. She loved this man. If she could not give him all of herself, she would at least give as much as possible. "I like how you taste."

Jaime's groan sounded like it had been dragged from the very depths of his soul. "Please," he whispered, hoisting himself back up the bed and reclining against the crumpled pillows. She took the one she'd howled into and handed it to him.

"On the off-chance I'm actually any good at this," she told him. "Can't have you shouting fit to wake the dead."

He started laughing, his wide shoulders shaking with it, but he sobered in the space of a heartbeat when Brienne nudged his legs apart and began to settle herself between them. She figured he'd looked comfortable enough, so it should be good enough for her own purposes, as well.

"You can do anything you want to me, too," Jaime said. His eyes looked black as he stared at her, almost unnerving in their intensity. She had the queerest feeling he wasn't just talking about his body, and so Brienne nodded soberly, giving the offer the respect it deserved.

His shaft rose like a pillar before her, deeply flushed with arousal, and Brienne felt her mouth water at the sight. But she pressed her face against his abdomen first, feeling the crispness of his golden hair against her cheek. She inhaled the scent of him, some primitive instinct uncoiling, dissolving her inhibitions entirely.

Brienne took him in her hand and angled his thrusting length down so she could close her lips around the swollen head, feeling rather than hearing his heartfelt sigh of relief shudder from his lungs. She lowered her head further, took more of him in. He was thick and succulent in her mouth, his flavor of salt and musk pleasing to her tongue. She drew on him, gently and then harder, and his hands came to bury themselves in the slippery locks of her hair as they straggled free of her long braid and cascaded over his lap.

"Brienne," Jaime whispered, almost reverently. His hips undulated to meet her on every downstroke, and it wasn't long before he removed one hand from her hair to bring the pillow over his face. He let out a ferocious-sounding growl into the feathers, surging into her mouth, filling it with his now-familiar taste.

It was not the most appetizing mouthful, but when he threw the pillow to the side and looked down at her, there was something vulnerable in how he watched her. She swallowed, ignoring the faint sensation of quease it gave her. To do otherwise would have felt like a rejection of him, and besides, Brienne was not in a prohibitive mood. Light kindled in Jaime's eyes once more, at the sight. There was something in his expression that spoke of relief, of gratitude, and she felt sure that Cersei had never taken all of him as Brienne had just done.

It made her feel bizarrely proud, that she was a better lover to Jaime than his sister had been, even if it were only in her speculations. She leaned up at the same moment he reached for her, and she went into his arms, letting him pull her down atop him. She mumbled something about being too heavy and crushing him, but he ignored it, wrapping his arms around her tightly, almost convulsively.

Brienne let her hands explore him, her fingertips tracing the ripples and bulges of muscle in his shoulders and arms, enjoying the heat and smoothness. Now that the pleasure was receding from an ocean to a mere lake, the lingering distress she'd felt since overhearing him agree to Tyrion's offer began to seep back.

He pressed a kiss to her cheek. She could feel when it turned into a smile, and shifted off him so she could see why.

"Brienne," he said, eyes still closed. His face was relaxed, blissful, all lines of strain erased. This close, their noses brushing, he was painfully good-looking, and she marveled yet again that she was allowed to be so near him. "My wife."

There was a catch at her heart to hear how tenderly he said it. When he had fallen asleep, she permitted herself to answer.

"Jaime," she murmured, her voice shaky as tears leaked out, trailing down her temples to soak her hair. "My husband."

Not for long, not forever, but for now… he was hers.


	26. Chapter 26

Jon IX

Jon finished pounding the last fence post into the ground, then tossed his mallet in the vague direction of the canvas tool sack sprawled on the nearby grass. He swiped a shirt sleeve over his sweaty forehead and then stood back, hands on hips, to survey his work.

It was done. The stupid damned fence repairs, which his father and Jory had begun and been killed in the course of doing, which the sheriff had accosted him in the middle of, was done at last. He'd rather have been working with the cattle, but it had needed doing and Robb was still overwhelmed by the business-side of ranching.

Robb was also overwhelmed by his mother, who seemed to kick up a fuss about the stupidest things every damned day. As if that weren't enough, in recent weeks Jeyne Westerling had become far more eager to keep company with him, almost to the point of aggression in her less-and-less-subtle hints that they get married. Jon had warned Robb not to be alone with her, suspecting she might be so keen to become the next lady of the Northpoint that she'd coax him into a compromising situation.

He wanted to help his brother, but didn't know how much he'd be able to do— not with Miz Catelyn as eager to find fault with him, as prompt to assume he was bucking for her son's inheritance. And not with a baby on the way– more of his time would be spent at the Triple D when that day came.

A baby. He'd permitted himself to think about having childrensometimes, on rare occasions when he'd wait to fall asleep in his bunk, or while laying out under the stars while on a drive, wondering if that were all life had in store for him. If that were all he could expect. If, as Miz Catelyn seemed to believe, that were all he deserved, as someone with such tainted origins.

And then everything had changed, everything, and he was caught between gladness and guilt, for how could he be glad to have Dany, and their baby, when it was only due to his father's death that he did? There was no doubt in his mind that, had things gone another way and Joffrey had not killed Ned and Jory, Jon would never have had any reason to marry her, nor even talk to her, outside of the occasional brush-by in town.

He gathered up the tools and leftover materials, tossing them all in the canvas sack that he secured to Ghost's saddle before heaving himself up. Loathing scalded him as he returned to the main house, for his weakness and selfishness, because now that he'd had Dany, now that their baby was coming, he could not say with certainty that he wouldn't make that trade, if the choice were his.

He wanted to be able to say he'd keep his father alive, of course he would, even if it meant he'd live his life alone: the solitary bastard, no family of his own, always just a hanger-on of Ned's real children. And he couldn't, and it ate at him.

Back at the barn, he deposited the sack of tools at the workbench and made his way to the house. Inside was a-bustle as preparations were made for dinner, Claudia setting the table while glancing through the arched doorway down the hall toward the source of a ruckus. From afar, Jon could hear Miz Catelyn's sharp voice ringing off the walls as she reprimanded Sansa for returning so late from her afternoon ride to town for the mail.

"Either you won't be able to change," Miz Catelyn was saying, "or we'll have to hold dinner until you do!"

"Mother," Sansa replied with admirable patience, "there is nothing wrong with my dress. It was only the slightest bit dusty, and I can go back outside and brush more off of it if you think it needs it. But there's no need for me to change or to hold dinner."

Then boot-heels clicked down the hallway and Sansa appeared in the foyer.

"Jon!" she exclaimed, and despite the sour disappointment in himself that had curdled in his belly, there was a warm little burst of pleasure that she'd welcome him so. She came to him and kissed his cheek.

"You look like you were busy today," she commented with a smile, looking him up and down. Doubtless he was far dustier than she'd been, dirty too, and he thought with longing of a nice soak in Dany's big tub once he'd gone home.

"Finished the fence," he told her, and she nodded, though the animation went from her face. She, too, was clearly thinking about their father and Jory.

"You're welcome to stay for dinner," she said, "though I'm sure you want to get home."

Miz Catelyn appeared then, shooting Jon a venomous look and ignoring her daughter completely before vanishing through the door to the kitchen.

"She's not gotten any better, then?" Jon asked.

"No," said Sansa, her pretty head turned downward. "She's worse every day, in fact."

Jon had a thought, probably an unwise one, and was unsure if it were his place to speak of it, but…

"If you want," he said, "if you want to get away— only for a while— you can come stay with us?"

The gods knew there was enough room. She could have an entire floor to herself, could spend the day in peace and change for dinner— or not— as she wished. Perhaps, if she were bored, she could help Dany with some of her endless paperwork. She was far smarter than Jon was, far cannier when it came to business, had helped their father many times when it came to finding the right wording for sensitive letters to important people. She might even find it interesting work.

Sansa's face lit up with pleasure. "What a lovely idea," she breathed. "And— I can't— perhaps not just now. It's so soon after losing Father, it would be so unkind, and to leave her with Arya and the boys, that wouldn't be right, but… maybe? In a few more weeks?"

Jon nodded. "Whenever you like."

She pulled him into a hug, soon releasing him with a wrinkled nose when she caught a whiff of him after a hard workday. "Go home and bathe before you kiss your wife," she admonished, and he grinned, happy she felt able to tease him after so many years of tension. "And tell her I sent my regards."

"I will," Jon promised. She followed her mother to the kitchen and he went to the study, where Robb was squinting down at an account book.

"I have to hire a manager," his brother said solemnly, looking weary and frustrated. "I hate being cooped up in here all day. I don't like reducing the cattle to number of head, and I don't know what's happening out there anymore. It's all just other people reporting to me, and…"

He tossed the ledger onto the desk, where it landed with a thump on the untidy sprawl of papers and a pen that was steadily leaking into the leather blotter. Jon approached and stuck the pen in its stand before it could drench everything around it.

"What are you doing here?" Robb continued. His fingers raked through his auburn curls, displacing them so they danced wildly around his head. "Come to say goodbye for the day?"

"That, and give you a report," said Jon, grinning at the sour frown Robb gave in response. "Fence is mended."

Robb exhaled. "Thanks. Wish you'd stay for dinner, sometimes. I almost never see you anymore."

"Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I'll have Dany meet me here." He paused. "If that wouldn't be a problem. With your mother."

"If my mother has a problem, it's her problem," said Robb. "She's been… I know she's suffered a terrible loss. We all have. But she's making us all miserable, lately. I find myself envious of you, more and more each day. You get to go home to a pretty little wife, instead of spending your evening listening to Mother criticize all of us, tell us how we need to be different, how we're failing Father by not listening to her…"

"She'd be criticizing me even more than the rest of you, if I did stay," Jon reminded him, irritation flaring. 'Pretty little wife' aside, he'd had a lifetime of being only one step up in status from the cows in the eyes of everyone but his father and most of his siblings. Envious of what? Being a bastard? Being viewed as no better than any ranch hand? His brothers and sisters had lived in luxury, eating fine meals while he'd been relegated to the bunkhouse and scooping beans from a can with a tin spoon.

Robb's shoulders slumped in resignation before he slapped his hands down on the desk— one right on top of the damp ink patch, how had he not seen it?— before pushing himself to stand.

"Well, get going. The sooner you leave, the sooner you can give Daenerys a kiss from her goodbrother." He made to slap Jon playfully on the shoulder, but Jon dodged away; he didn't have many shirts, and still didn't know how he felt about Dany buying him clothing. He couldn't spare this one to an inky handprint.

The fondness on Robb's face chipped away at his resentment, leaving him ashamed for it. Oblivious his brother might be to what Jon had endured, but he'd never thrown it in Jon's face or made him feel less than welcome and loved.

"Go wash up," he advised his brother, forcing a jovial tone and grinning at Robb's misfortune when he looked down and saw the huge blue splotch across his palm. "Good luck with it."

It was a peaceful ride home, a long slow sunset over the hills just ending in a red sun hovering on the horizon as twilight waited to fall as he arrived at the Triple D. A carriage was there as he approached, looking familiar, and then Jon recalled how the Lannisters preferred dark red leather for the folding hoods of their vehicles. Jaime was with Brienne now and using her wagon, so that ruled him out, but… for a moment, Jon thought perhaps Cersei Baratheon was back. Why would she be paying a call on Dany, though?

Missandei took his hat and directed him to the library where Dany was with their guest, and within he found Tyrion Lannister gazing with avid eyes at one of her dirty books. He glanced over at his wife; she only smirked as she rose from behind her huge old desk.

They exchanged greetings and then he went up to wash. No time for a bath, so he only lathered up a cloth and scrubbed down, then pulled on fresh clothes. Downstairs, they sat around the ornately carved table. A nearby buffet almost groaned beneath the weight of dinner, and his stomach growled, surprising him with how famished he was. Missandei watched, eagle-eyed, from the corner nearest the kitchen as a new servant— Dany called him a footman— began to carve thick slabs of a roast onto each of their plates.

They spent a few minutes dedicating themselves to their meal. Dany ate sparingly, as was her habit now that she was expecting, but Jon and Tyrion both did considerable damage to the roast.

"We'll take dessert on the veranda," Dany told Missandei when they were done, and led them through the Lyseni doors to the deep porch. Dusk encompassed the sky in shades of cobalt and violet, almost distracting Jon entirely from the point of Tyrion's visit with its resemblance to Dany's eyes and wondering if their baby would share their color.

"Not that it's bad to see you again," Jon said as they all seated themselves in the leather-padded rocking chairs that furnished the veranda, "but we were never exactly close, before you left, so…"

"If you would repeat to my husband what you revealed to me earlier?" Dany prompted Tyrion, interrupting Jon's musings as he turned his chair to face the other two more easily.

"Why, Jon, are you not delighted by my presence?" Tyrion said with a feigned gasp of shock, one stubby hand to his chest as if mortally wounded. Jon only propped an ankle on the opposite knee, his curiosity whetted by the other man's facetious response. Tyrion shot him a fake scowl. "Yes, fine. I'm here because I'll be looking into exonerating my brother, and thought you might also be interested in pursuing it for yourself. From what I've heard about your case, it doesn't hold water."

"A sieve holds more water," Jon growled, his mood taking an abrupt shift for the worse at the idea of the injustice he and Jaime had suffered. He had no love for the man, hardly knowing him, but he knew Jaime hadn't done it, no more than he himself had killed Joffrey, and it galled him that two people could be summarily convicted on such spurious 'evidence'. "They weren't bothered to try to find us guilty, they made us have to prove our innocence. That's not how it should be."

"You're not alone in that opinion," agreed Tyrion, a keen intellect shining in his mismatched eyes. "Some think that there needs to be some legislation established where we presume one is innocent until convinced otherwise with evidence, with the burden of proof on the prosecution rather than the defense, but until there's case law on the subject, at the federal level…" He spread out his hands in the universal gesture of futility. "It is as it is."

"What can be done?" asked Jon. "Anything? Because I don't want to spend the rest of my life known as a killer, convicted and sentenced."

"I don't know yet. Won't until I get a chance to look at the judgment of conviction, the discovery— such as it is— I need to look at what Judge Baelish wrote to justify his verdict." Tyrion's eyebrow twitched and he tilted his head as he contemplated Jon, making him feel like he was being dissected rather than merely observed. "So, for the sake of your reputation? Not to—" here, he gave a delicate cough "—make a moot point of Mrs. Snow's kind sacrifice for your sake?"

Jon glanced at Dany; she met his eyes, but her face had that cool façade that obstructed any inkling to her thoughts. Jon had a wild impulse to shout at her, or shake her, to do something to make that façade crumble and permit him a glimpse to what she was thinking.

"Thank you, but no," he told Tyrion at last, though the words were for Dany. "We're expecting a baby, so there will be no dissolving of our marriage."

"My goodness," Tyrion murmured. "You work quickly, ser."

"I find the threat of death to be quite a motivator," he replied, tone a bit sharp. It was not Tyrion's place, or anyone else's, to comment on the speed with which he'd managed to get his wife with child.

"Indeed, indeed," said Tyrion, a note of appeasement to his tone. "My brother will positively seethe with jealousy, that you're outdoing him in that regard."

"I wasn't aware it was a race," said Dany. Her tone was chilly, with an odd note to it. He peered at her; it was hard to tell, with only the lantern light now that dark had fallen, but he could have sworn she looked… hurt. But why? Jon frowned at her, but her attention was wholly on Tyrion.

"So, for the sake of your reputation, if not a wish for liberation from your marriage," Tyrion said with care, "shall I work on your behalf? Or only on my brother's?"

It was on Jon's lips to refuse, reiterating the pointlessness of it, but also… he had nowhere near enough money to afford an attorney, especially at the rates a Lannister would charge, and felt no better about having his wife pay for his lawyer than for his shirts.

"Yes," said Dany, to his surprise. "I think that would be beneficial."

Surprised, he looked from Tyrion to her and found her watching him, the way she used to before they married. It made Jon feel like they were in the mercantile doorway again, him no more than an obstacle in her path and her asking in that haughty little voice if he'd be so kind to move.

"I'm tired," he said abruptly and stood. "Been a long day, and another one tomorrow. Dany will show you out."

He was aware of Tyrion's startled gaze on him as he passed through the doors into the dining room, where the footman was just carrying in a silver tray laden with a tea service and slivers of cake on wafer-thin china plates. The footman's eyes widened but, wisely, he said nothing as Jon brushed by him. Through the foyer, up the grand, arching staircase to their bedroom, where he shed the clothing he'd put on only an hour earlier and fell into the bed.

Fatigued though he was, sleep eluded him. First it was the noise created when Tyrion's carriage ambled down the drive on its way out, stone crunching under its wheels and the horses' tack clinking and jangling with each trot.

Then he blamed it on the moon, rising huge and bright in the clear Texas sky; he flung back the covers and stomped to the window, yanking closed the drapes until they shrouded the room in darkness but for twin slivers of light persisting at the edges of the fabric.

It was too hot. Why would there be quilts on the bed this early in the autumn? He peeled them off until only the thin coverlet and sheet remained. And there weren't enough pillows. He stacked his own under his head, then took Dany's and piled them up as well, until he found himself propped into a seated position rather than laying down, and then there were too many.

At last he was forced to admit to himself that he was angry, and had been all day. Fixing the fence had been an endless reminder of his father's death, and then Catelyn being her superior, demeaning self, and now Dany with that cool expression and wanting to hire Tyrion. Why? To get rid of him, now that he'd served his purpose as a stud bull?

When the slivers of light disappeared and the room went fully dark, Jon realized that the moon had shifted and no longer beamed right toward the window. Hours had passed and Dany had not yet joined him. Had she returned to the library to work, despite the doctor's admonition she rest more?

Jon bounded from the bed to where he'd discarded his clothes on the chair and pulled on his trousers once more, then tugged on his shirt before padding out to the corridor in his bare feet. Downstairs, the dining room was cleared and tidied; the veranda was devoid of activity or sign anyone had been there at all. The study was dark and silent, the lamps long since snuffed.

In the kitchen, the cook was just hanging up her apron.

"Ask Missandei to come see me," he told the woman, who nodded and departed for locations unknown, as Jon had yet to visit the servants' quarters. He thought they might be behind Viserys' wing.

He waited in the hall outside the kitchen, and soon Missandei arrived, so soundlessly that he startled when she appeared before him.

"Where is my wife?" he asked.

Her gaze flicked over his disarray. "Will you beat her?" she asked without expression. "If you will, I won't tell you."

Jon flinched back, stunned. "No!" he said, too confused to be angry at such an offensive question. "I'd never— she's—"

A woman— my wife— carrying my child— there were so many reasons the question was insane, he found himself unable to mention any of them, only staring in astonishment at the housekeeper.

Apparently the horror of his reaction convinced Missandei, because she nodded. "Follow me," she said, and led him into Viserys' wing. Jon had never been there before, either, and was amazed at how different it was from Dany's.

Hers was all clean lines and grace, while Viserys' was as labyrinthine and convoluted as his mind. They followed a short corridor, then up three stairs; took another few steps, made a sharp turn, then down five stairs. Along a deep-curved wall and through a door so short even little Missandei had to stoop to fit through it— Jon nearly bent in half to accomplish it— and then up eight stairs.

At the end of a broad hallway, she tossed up the sash of a window and climbed through it, making a shout freeze in Jon's throat until he realized she hadn't just flung herself to her death, merely passed through to a room on the other side. He followed, his knees almost to his nose as he folded himself small enough to fit. When he straightened, found himself in a room a pasha would not turn up his nose at.

Windowless, it was draped all around in lavender charmeuse, deep ruching all along the walls and gathered in pleats up the conical ceiling, at the center of which was an actual crown, lined in plum velvet and glinting with amethysts. Plush carpets covered the floors with exotic patterns in ivory and heliotrope, and in place of furniture were enormous cushions in lilac satin, against which reclined his wife.

She had exchanged her frock for a shift of utter simplicity in lustrous, ink-dark aubergine silk embroidered in silver around the neck, cuffs, and hem. Her unbound hair was startling in its paleness against the silk.

Jon scarcely noticed when Missandei left, but as soon as he realized they were alone, he took a step closer.

"She thought I was going to beat you."

Dany stood and approached. She looked like a being from fantasy, impossible in her beauty, encompassing in her allure. How could she let a bastard touch her?

"My father beat my mother any time she displeased him," she replied, voice quiet. "She must have thought you were angry at me."

"I was. I am." He licked his lips and stared down at her, confused and aroused and vexed, all at once. "But I'd never hurt you."

She nodded soberly, and his muscles uncoiled a fraction, not realizing until just then how important it was to him that she know he'd die before harming her.

"I'm angry at you, too," she said. "I did not like you speaking for me about our marriage. And not in front of another person. Nor that you revealed we were expecting to him."

Jon was astonished that she'd be upset by something inevitable, and angersplintered through him.

"We are expecting," he said tightly, "and it's only a matter of time before the whole town knows. You fainted and the sheriff carried you down Main Street, and if that weren't enough, Doc Pycelle is the biggest gossip in Central Texas. You'd have done better to put an ad in the Austin Herald; fewer people'd know about it by now."

Not a flicker of reaction showed on her face; butter could not have melted in her mouth.

"You are trying to pick a fight with me," she said at last, and took another step closer, until she was near enough to reach out and run a fingertip down the row of buttons on his open shirt. "But I don't feel like a fight."

"What do you feel like?" Jon's voice came out deeper, harsher than he'd intended, but he'd caught a glimpse of the desire welling in her eyes. He knew what she felt like doing. His hands came to her arms, encircling their fragile slimness, the heat of her permeating the skim of silk over her flesh. "Is it safe?" He'd not do anything to harm their baby. His anger began to fade, thrust aside by burgeoning desire, and he bent to kiss her.

She opened to him, tongue toying with his until his heart thundered in his chest and his breath came in gasps.

"Are you sure you want to?" she asked when they parted for air, her tone goading. "Without the threat of death motivating you, there's no need to continue with a farce—"

Anger sparked within Jon at her words; she was going to punish him for things he'd said in irritation at someone else? He kissed her again, so passionately that she sagged against him and he had to grab her, lower her to the cushions before she fell to them.

Her shift was easily peeled off, as were his shirt and trousers, and then they were bare against each other. Dany pushed at his shoulders until he rolled to his back. His chest was heaving like a bellows, and when she raked her fingernails down his chest to his groin— lightly, lightly— he groaned, eyes rolling back in his head.

She took Jon in her mouth, and his body arched as if in pain at her delicate suction of only the purpling head of his erection. He shouted, writhing. She showed mercy and knelt on the bed at his waist, one leg slinging itself over his hips. She took him in hand, stroking him through her damp cleft and watching, eyes heavy-lidded in satisfaction, as he panted quick and shallow in response.

At last Dany sank down over him, taking him deep. The slow, wet drag of her flesh had Jon surging up, thrusting to meet every downward glide. Each time made a slick, sleek noise, and the scent of her hot, fresh juices teased his nose ruthlessly.

Their gazes locking, she cupped her breasts, pinching the rosy nipples, pulling them until they stood out, delicate points stiff and reaching for him. One hand drifted, languorous and lazy, southward until it curved around her mons. Her middle finger pressed inward, eliciting a gasp of her own as it found the hard bud at her center. Then she reached lower with two fingers, sliding them to either side of the wet prick sinking so eagerly into the swollen folds.

Jon twitched at this added stimulus, the tendons of his neck standing out in high, tense relief. He threw his head back, throat exposed and vulnerable, offering himself to her as he poured himself out into her body with a guttural, muffled cry. He could see nothing but light, hear nothing but the rush of blood in his veins, and pleasure crashed like waves, like waves…

Slowly, she lowered herself to lay on him, ear pressed to his thundering heartbeat. He lay there in a daze for endless moments. His thoughts were a fog in gray and charcoal, tangled like a skein of wool. What had happened? Why had they argued?

She was furious that he'd told a stranger that he'd only wed her because of their agreement: she would save him and he'd father her children. But it was the truth; he would not have married her, would not have laid a finger on her, had that not been the case. It might have been indelicate, to speak of it to Tyrion, but where was the lie? Surely her pride was not so delicate that she could not tolerate speaking the truth when it showed her in less-than-favorable light?

But he was furious, as well; her choosing to hire Tyrion to clear his name was not what he had wanted, and she had agreed without consulting him. He had some pride, too, and it did not like the idea that now that she had what she required from him, he was no longer needful to her.

Despite his fulminating resentment, Jon fell asleep. When he woke, Dany was gone and he was alone in the lush opulence of the room. It was close and airless without any windows, his cock was stuck to his thigh, and he was parched enough to drink from a horse trough. He had no idea how to find his way out of Viserys' twisted madhouse.

With a sigh, he collapsed back onto the cushions and closed his eyes.


	27. Chapter 27

Sansa IX

Sansa returned from town chagrined that there had been no response to her last note and the lock of hair she'd sent with it. That made three days without a peep from Dear Admirer, and her mood was a bit lowered as a result. She went directly from the barn to her bedroom, intent on changing from boots to shoes she'd wear in the house and wondering if she should write him again or simply wait for his reply.

Upon stepping through the door, however, she stopped short, because her mother was already there, by the dressing table. A stack of clean laundry on the bed suggested Catelyn had entered to deposit it. She held the bouquet of feathers in one hand and the braid of sweetgrass in the other. Her face, so like Sansa's own, was creased in puzzlement.

"Where did you get these?" Catelyn asked, holding the feathers and the braid out another inch toward Sansa, then nodded down at the woven-quill box. "None of those young men who came calling have returned. Is someone else courting you?"

Panic made Sansa's fingertips tingle; how was she to best answer the question? What could she say to maintain her mother's peace of mind and keep her from becoming upset? It was only late afternoon. If Catelyn got angry, she'd nurse her pique the rest of the day, not being one to quickly forgive and forget. And Sansa's nerves hadn't yet settled from the prior day's confrontation about the matter of changing for dinner. It had spurred a vicious headache. A twinge in her temples told her that her head was no better at forgiveness than her mother was.

She couldn't possibly tell the truth, but who could she say was her benevolent gentleman friend? Ramsay Bolton was out of the question, as was Dale Seaworth, since they both had parents to whom Catelyn could speak regarding a possible alliance of families. It would have to be her third erstwhile beau by default.

"Gendry Waters," she hurried to reply before her silence became suspicious. "He's been too busy to stop by again, but puts little gifts for me in our mailbox. Isn't it kind of him?"

"Kind, yes," agreed Catelyn, her eyes keen as she studied her daughter. "But… a blacksmith, Sansa?"

"He's a very fine blacksmith, Mother," Sansa said, her voice consciously devoid of defensiveness or accusation even as she prickled with annoyance. As if owning a ranch or a fishery were any better than being a tradesman; those were just ways of saying 'jumped-up farmer', as far as she was concerned. Neither the Starks nor the Tullys had any claim to blue blood, and it wouldn't have mattered if they had; everyone was the same as everyone else, in America.

Catelyn liked to behave as if the Tully clan back in Scotland had, prior to emigrating across the sea, enjoyed a pretension to nobility. The truth, however, was that they'd been only Lowland commoners scratching out a living on the Solway Firth between the Rivers Cree and Nith with nothing but three fishing boats and a grim determination to do their duty to their family with some degree of honor.

Heritage did not appear to be on Catelyn's mind at the moment.

"You'd live here, of course," she was saying, "so I suppose if it comes to anything, he'd become the Northpoint's blacksmith. It could be a considerable savings over having to pay out to someone in town as we do to him now…"

Sansa's temper kicked at the tether she'd put on it. She wanted nothing to do with Gendry, had only mentioned him as a diversion. But her mother's calculation and assumptions of where they'd live infuriated her.

"That's a bit premature, don't you think?" she said, her voice mild despite the storm within. _Don't arouse suspicion, don't arouse suspicion…_ "And what if Gendry doesn't want to give up his shop to be the Northpoint's pet blacksmith?"

She came forward and tried to be nonchalant as she took the items from her mother's hands. Having anyone touching them but her was… unpleasant. Having others know about them felt as if the purity of the situation were polluted. They were _hers_ ; Dear Admirer had given them to _her_ , no one else.

"Besides, I quite like the idea of living in town," she continued breezily. "We could have the sweetest little rooms over the smithy. It would be so cozy, once the children started to come—"

A clatter at the door had both women turning. Arya stood on the threshold, eyes huge. She was streaked with dust and her hair was wild, clues that she'd let Rickon drive the buggy home from school. He'd likely whipped the horse to a frenzy of speed.

"Arya!" said Catelyn, her tone somewhere between fond and exasperated. "How you look! You're filthy! You go have a bath right away, so you're ready in time for supper—"

"What were you talking about?" Arya demanded. "What about the smithy? And children?"

"Oh, it's nothing—" Sansa hurried to say, but at the same moment, Catelyn said, "Gendry Waters has been giving courting gifts to your sister."

Arya's eyes, somehow, got even bigger, flicking from Sansa's face down to the contents of her hands, and an expression of rage flickered over her features that Sansa was well familiar with. Arya had always been one to destroy things others had, but which she did not and wanted dearly. Sansa hurried to put the feathers, sweetgrass braid, and quill box in the drawer of her dressing table.

"Mother was only teasing me," she said while sliding the drawer closed. "Making more out of it than there is."

Catelyn shot her a doubtful glance but nodded, willing to fib to appease and settle Arya. "Yes, just a bit of teasing."

Arya said not a word, clearly unconvinced, but Catelyn bustled forward, arms out to herd her younger daughter from the elder's bedroom.

"To the bath, now!" she said. "You're more dust than girl! It'll take an hour to scrub all that filth off of you. I swear, Arya, it's like you try to be the exact opposite of everything I want for you…" Her voice faded as they moved down the hallway.

 _No_ , thought Sansa sadly, _she tries to be the exact opposite of_ _me_ _._ It was her own fault; she'd been almost as unpleasant, in her youth, to her sister as she had to Jon. _Amends to be made there, as well._

Sansa vowed she'd do whatever she could to make it up to Arya. The girl lacked Jon's forgiving nature, however, and would be much harder to convince to let bygones be bygones. Recalling her sister's mutinous expression, she decided to hide Dear Admirer's gifts once more. She ducked into Father's– Robb's– study to hide them behind a few of the smaller books in the cases.

She decided a compromise was in order, hoping to keep her mother sweet, and changed her plain high-collared batiste shirtwaist to one in oyster satin that showed her throat. She rearranged her hair from its neat plaited coil low on her head to something higher and softer, coaxing waves around her face. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to bring out some color and, when she heard Nan's voice echoing down the hall, calling them to supper, she hoped for a pleasant meal.

But it was not to be. Robb was tired and subdued; Bran kept quiet, as usual, but Rickon was in high spirits and doing what he could to cheer everyone up. Sansa attempted to help him, and at first, Catelyn did as well. Arya's sullen mood dampened the atmosphere, though, until the others at last fell silent, steadily working on emptying their plates.

"I don't want dessert," Arya muttered when they were done, and slipped from the room like a wraith before anyone would react.

"I'll have hers!" declared Rickon, looking enraptured at the idea of a second slice of pie.

"You certainly will _not_ ," Catelyn told him, lips pressed flat in disapproval. He deflated, scowling petulantly down at the table, boot heels drumming against the legs of his chair.

Once dessert had been brought— slabs of pie with cups of tea for Sansa and Catelyn, coffee for Robb, and more glasses of milk for Bran and Rickon— Catelyn tried again to instigate polite conversation.

"So, are you finding it any easier to manage the ranch?" she inquired of her oldest son.

"No," he said, glum. "Been thinking of asking Jon if he'll help me with it, instead of his only being a hand like all the rest." The look he slanted her was warning; he did not want to hear her disparage his brother.

Catelyn's face puckered, as if she were eating lemon pie rather than dewberry, but she applied herself to her tea and said nothing.

"I think he'd like that," Sansa ventured, and Robb shot her a grateful smile.

"We'd be able to see him more often, too," said Bran. "By the time we're home from school, he's out with the bullocks or the weanlings and only comes back to the main house to say goodbye for the day."

"I miss him," Rickon said plainly. "I miss Father, too. And Jory."

Catelyn flinched, as if she were a guitar string that had just been plucked, and her mouth opened to say something doubtless sure to send them all into a spiraling argument.

But then Arya careened back into the dining room, her skirt held up in front to serve as a basket for the collection of items she was toting. As she progressed, one of them flew up and away to flutter to the ground in her wake.

 _Letters_. They were Dear Admirer's letters.

"Those gifts aren't from Gendry!" Arya crowed, triumph harsh on her face. "They're from—"

Sansa leaped to her feet and circled the table with a speed she hadn't known herself to be capable of, snatching at the letters.

"Those are _mine_ ," she growled, and Arya blinked in surprise before darting backward, out of Sansa's reach.

"They're from someone calling himself Your Admirer," she declared, skipping around the table, tossing them haphazardly at her mother and brothers. She selected one of the letters from the top of the pile, shook it open, and began to read aloud.

" _I don't know what to give you, after this,"_ she said, her voice a poncy falsetto dripping with mockery _. "All I have left is myself, but I'm not worth a nickel."_

"Arya!" Sansa shouted, putting on a burst of speed, but her sister was quicker and eluded her once more.

" _I guess this is my last gift, then,"_ she continued. " _I wish I had more. I wish I was more. I wish I deserved you."_ She tossed the letter away and it, too, fluttered as it fell to the rug.

Sansa snatched it up, folding it carefully with trembling fingers. Her mind seemed to float out of her head and hover by the ceiling. It was as if she were observing the scene play out from above. With a curious detachment, she watched herself deliver a deep-swinging slap to Arya's face.

The sting of her palm dropped her back into her body with a jolt.

"How dare you!" she shrieked, finally pushed beyond her endurance as Arya reeled back, hand going to the bright red imprint on her cheek. "How dare you go in my room— rummage through my things— steal my private letters— make fun of him! You have no right! No right!"

She raised her hand to slap her again, but Robb was there, gently encircling her wrist with his big rough paw.

"Sansa," he said, "no."

Sansa's attention widened from her narrow focus on Arya to the rest of the room, Not only were her mother and her brothers watching her in astonishment, but Nan and Claudia had come, probably alerted by the shouting voices and running feet, and were staring at Sansa as if they'd never seen her before.

She forced a swallow past the lump in her throat. "Those… those letters are mine," she croaked. "I don't have a lot that's mine. My father's gone, my mother wants me to be someone else, my sister hates me… but my admirer, he likes me. Loves me, even. Those letters are _mine_ and you will give them back to me or I will take them, Arya, and you won't like how I do it."

"Give them back, Arya," Robb commanded, his voice low and calm, hand outstretched while Sansa trembled from the force of her rage. He took the letters Arya grudgingly held out. "Let's go talk in the study," he said to Sansa, tugging at the wrist he still held in his other hand. She nodded and followed him blindly, depending on him to lead the way because she could not see through the sudden tears clouding her vision.

The study was cool and dark, still scented by their father's pipe tobacco. Sansa dropped into one of the chairs before the desk as Robb settled into the tall-backed one behind it. He peered at the stack of letters in his hand.

"Want to tell me what this is about?" he asked as he handed them to her. She took them gratefully, folding them carefully into their envelopes one-by-one until she held a neat square stack of them. The tears she'd been struggling to hold back finally coursed down her face.

But before she could speak, the door opened and Catelyn stepped through. She held another of the letters and gazed at it as she took the other seat before the desk.

" _Kindly is only the weakest thing I feel about you?"_ she read aloud, lifting wide eyes to her daughter. "Sansa, you cannot think that it is appropriate to receive the attentions of a man who won't even disclose who he is."

"What's 'appropriate'?" Sansa retorted, sniffling. "It wasn't appropriate for Joffrey to hit me, or for Mrs. Baratheon to be so cruel all the time, but they did it anyway. Dear Admirer hasn't done a thing to hurt me; he's only ever been kind and generous. With everything that has happened, how tense and unhappy everyone is— how tense and unhappy _I_ am, I wanted… I like how kind he is to me. How I don't have to do anything, or change anything about myself, to make him happy. He likes me just as I already am."

Catelyn was silent for a long moment, clearly processing. Robb leaned across the desk to pass Sansa his handkerchief, which she took with gratitude.

"I understand you've had a hard time of it, lately," Catelyn said at last, slowly, as if picking her words with care. "We all have. And I know I haven't been making it any easier."

Sansa and Robb exchanged an incredulous glance; was their mother actually admitting she might be at fault for something?

"But none of that excuses the fact that you've been carrying on an illicit… thing… with an unknown person for weeks, perhaps months."

 _Illicit_. That stung, though it was undeniably true.

"That makes it sound sordid," Sansa protested, gazing down at the stack of letters in her lap. "It's not sordid. It's the purest thing I've ever known."

"Be that as it may," said Catelyn, "you must end it immediately."

 _What?_ Sansa's head snapped up to stare at her mother, wide-eyed.

"Tomorrow, you will write to this admirer and tell him there can be no more correspondence between you," Catelyn said. Her tone was gentle but firm. "And you will return the gifts."

 _Do you want to take everything from me? I'll have nothing left, nothing at all._

"The longer it goes on, the more risk of someone finding out," her mother continued. "What if the Tyrells learn about it?"

Sansa stared blankly at her. Was that really all she cared about, keeping up appearances? Hiding the family's dirty laundry?

"Willas Tyrell asked about you last Sunday after church, you know," Catelyn went on, oblivious to Sansa's look of disbelief. "I was considering letting it be for another few months, to make sure you were past what happened with Joffrey, but…" She gave an uncertain smile. "If you can look favorably on the uncouth overtures of a stranger, then surely you—"

Sansa shot up without even thinking about it, standing before her mother and Robb, almost shaking.

"No," she said clearly. "Not Willas Tyrell, not anyone, not anytime soon."

She left the study, letters clutched tight to her chest. As she passed by the dining room, Bran exited it and held out another letter. It had been replaced inside its envelope, which seemed to have fallen in someone's pie, if the sticky purple smudge were any indication.

"I didn't read it," he told her soberly.

Sansa bit back a sob and embraced him. "Thank you," she whispered before pulling away and making her way to her bedroom.

Once there, she gazed around at the mess Arya had made. Unconcerned with hiding her tracks, her sister had ransacked the room with abandon, leaving garments and toiletries strewn over the furniture and floor and hanging out of left-open drawers. The armoire doors swung loose and the valise at its bottom, in which Sansa had been storing the letters, gaped wide like a mouth.

An indrawn breath behind her signified her mother's arrival. Sansa sighed; she'd known Catelyn had not taken her refusal easily and would persist to press her agenda.

Catelyn came to stand at Sansa's side, face slack with amazement at the chaos her younger daughter had wrought before firming into determination and anger.

"I'm going to go get her," she announced, "and she will help us put everything to rights!"

"No, I—" Sansa began, but Catelyn was already marching away on her mission. Sansa's fists clenched. She didn't want Arya anywhere near her things or herself. Tidying her room would take long into the night, or she'd have to sleep in one of the guest rooms.

 _Or…_

Once the idea sprang into her mind, she knew that was exactly what she'd do. She walked blithely over everything on the floor to her armoire, where her valise rested on the bottom. Carelessly, she stuffed her boots, a few skirts and shirtwaists, some underwear and stockings, a nightgown, and her hairbrush and toiletries into it.

It was almost too heavy to carry but she gripped it with both hands and half-hauled, half-dragged it down the hall, peeping around the corner to watch for her mother and sister. After a quick diversion to the study to fetch the feathers, sweetgrass, and quill box, she nestled them with the letters already in the valise, safely cushioned by the tangle of garments.

"Where are you going?" asked Rickon behind her, and Sansa squeaked in surprise as she spun to face him, hand to her heart.

"To stay with Jon and Daenerys," she told him. Why not reveal it? They'd all know soon enough.

His eyes, so like her own, lit up. "Can I come, too?"

"No," she said, with true regret. It would be fun to have him along. She'd miss him and Bran and Robb. "You're too young. You have to mind Mother still."

He grimaced. "She won't let me go on drives or even rope the steers."

"I know," Sansa told him softly. Catelyn had gotten progressively more nervous about her children taking risks since Father's death. She treated the youngest, and wildest, of them more protectively than she had any of the others. No wonder he drove the wagon like a lunatic; he was desperate to do something, anything, besides whatever sedate activities Catelyn permitted him.

"Well," he said cheerfully, his morose attitude fleeting, "let me carry that for you. You taking the buggy or just riding Lady?"

"Keep your voice down," she said repressively, but couldn't prevent a smile. He grinned at her, snatched the valise, and bolted from the house toward the barn.

Sansa followed at a far more moderate pace, hurrying over the hard-packed dirt of the yard. Even so, by the time she arrived at Lady's stall, Rickon already had the horse halfway saddled. Together, they made short work of it, and securely lashed the valise on Lady's rump.

Rickon assisted her to mount and stepped back with another grin.

"Sun's down soon," he commented, "so you'd better go fast!"

Sansa peered westward out the swung-open barn door. The sun still had an hour on it; she'd be fine.

"Thanks, baby," she said, using the nickname they'd all used until he hit seven years old and insisted they stop. He flushed and ducked his head.

Catelyn exited the house onto the porch, squinting into the sun as she surveyed the yard. "Sansa?" she called. "Are you out here?"

"Better go now," advised Rickon, and Sansa agreed. With a touch of her heels to Lady's sides, she leaped into a canter.

"Sansa!" Catelyn cried as Lady burst from the barn, but Sansa did not even acknowledge that her name had been called, only leaned down over her mount's neck.

"Faster, love," she urged the horse, guiding her down the drive toward the road, and Lady fell into a full gallop. Dust kicked up around them, and a strand of her hair whipped free of its loose arrangement to fly into her eyes, but she didn't care.

She had to go past town to reach the Triple D— the two ranches were on opposite sides of Kingsland— and she decided to see if she could still duck into the post office. _Perhaps a note had been left for me there since my last visit only hours earlier…_ Her longing for something, anything, from Dear Admirer was a hard, eager pit in her stomach.

But when she'd tethered Lady to a hitching post and approached the post office, it was locked and dark within. Sansa's shoulders slumped.

"Closed an hour ago," said a voice behind her, and she whirled around to find Sheriff Clegane standing there, gaze roaming over her and mouth curved down in bemusement. "Something wrong?"


	28. Chapter 28

Sansa X

Sansa plastered herself back against the post office door, needing its support, because her knees had gone very wobbly, all of a sudden. "N-no," she said. "Why would you say that?"

His one remaining eyebrow quirked. "Because you're never in town this late, and you're dressed fancier than usual, and your hair looks like you were dragged backward through a hedge."

Sansa's breath caught. He certainly was perceptive. That he could recall that much about her typical ways to compare them to how she was at that moment was peculiar… wasn't it?

Then she caught the criticism inherent in his words and straightened, lifting her chin.

"I've had just about enough of people being awful to me today," she informed him haughtily. "I won't take it from you, as well."

His expression, which had been amused— probably at her show of gumption— shifted abruptly to anger.

"Are you hurt again?" he demanded, taking a step closer. "Did someone touch you? Is that why you're a mess?"

His hands came up to grasp her upper arms, but they were not hard or painful, just warm and… comforting, somehow. A thrill of awareness, of his huge size and immense strength, shot almost painfully through Sansa.

"No," she gasped. He was so close, as close as the night he'd arrested Jon and gone to the Northpoint to inform them of it, close enough to kiss—

"What happened?" He released her and stepped back, and Sansa could breathe once more.

"I'm… my family… I need…" Sansa was aware she was babbling, but she was able to decide which words to use. It didn't feel right, revealing even more of her family's problems to him.

 _But he helped you when you were hurt,_ whispered her conscience. _And when Dany was unwell. And he's never harmed you, not once._

"I'm going to stay at the Triple D with my brother and goodsister," Sansa managed to say at last. "I was not expecting to ride when I dressed and did my hair earlier." She lifted a shaky hand to pat her hair and found that it was a giant tangled disaster.

 _I really am a mess,_ she thought in horror. Never in her life had she gone about in public looking anything but immaculate. Now that the worst of her upset was over, and she could think of more frivolous things again, the wave of shame that rolled over her almost knocked her from her feet.

"Oh, no," she hiccuped, and burst into tears.

Sheer panic flashed over the sheriff's face. "Don't— don't _do_ that," he commanded. "Stop right now."

But she could not. The day's events were more than she could bear. The gate had flown open and there was no closing it. She cried harder.

"I know I shouldn't," she sniveled. "It'll make my skin blotchy, and my eyes red and swollen, and a lady should be composed in public, and—"

"Fuck's sake," he muttered and put a hand on her arm again. "Come… come in here. With me. To the jail."

She let him urge her along across the street. He ushered her inside the jail and shut the door. Sansa went to sit in one of the battered chairs before his desk, but he stopped her.

"Not there," he said. "Window's too big. Here behind the door, no one can see."

"But there's nothing _to_ see," she warbled, sheep-voiced and confused, swiping at her wet cheeks with both hands.

That was when he reached out and carefully, slowly, drew her into his arms. He was stiff as a board against her and his heart was beating fit to burst, but his touch was gentle, almost tentative.

"Cry," was all he said.

Sansa hadn't realized she needed the permission, but once she had it… oh, she cried.

Her weeping, to that point, had always been quiet, contained. _Ladylike_ ; ladies were silent when they wept, dabbing genteelly with a lace-edged handkerchief, perhaps emitting a sniffle if truly agitated. When Joffrey beat her, when she'd learned of her father's death and of Jon's arrest, all she'd let herself do was trickle a few tears before ruthlessly shoring herself up. A lady had to be the backbone of her family; without her fortitude and unflappable dignity, all would fall apart, and it would be her fault.

Now, Sansa _sobbed_. She wailed and keened; she even hammered her fists against the stone-like hardness of Sheriff Clegane's chest.

"It's all my fault," she gasped. "All of it. If I'd seen what a monster Joffrey was, hadn't become engaged to him, hadn't broken our engagement, he'd not have hit me. He'd not have been so angry that he'd kill Father and Jory. Jon wouldn't be convicted for murder, and forced to marry. My entire family is so terribly hurt, and I have to live with the knowledge that I ruined their lives—"

"You didn't," he interrupted.

"But—"

"No."

"But—"

" _No._ "

He seemed so certain; perhaps he was right? Sansa pressed her face against him, taking comfort in his solidity and heat. His arms around her were like iron bands, and she felt as if nothing could get to her through them. She'd soaked his shirt and waistcoat with her tears but didn't have the energy to be sorry about it; they'd wash out. She leaned harder against him, let him support her weight, and he took it easily, as he had those times he'd carried her and Dany.

"Are you sure?" she whispered. "Are you sure it wasn't because I was stupid and only saw how handsome Joffrey was?"

"You wouldn't be the first girl carried away by a pretty face," he groused, and the rumble of his voice was tremendously comforting. She clung to him, hands clenched on the lapels of his waistcoat, and almost gasped when she felt one of his hands on her head, smoothing down her hair. She was struck again by how gentle he was— shouldn't hands that large be rough and harsh? But he pet her as one would a kitten, slowly, lightly, and her distress loosened and slipped away.

"I've learned my lesson," Sansa replied eventually. She was loath to leave his embrace, but now that she was calm again, she had no way to justify it. Straightening, she stepped back. He released her immediately, arms falling to his sides. His face was utterly blank, but something in his eyes was blazing like a bonfire. For a brief, crazed moment, she wondered if he would kiss her. Hoped he would.

But he just said, "Wait here," and disappeared down the long corridor stretching past the cells, soon returning with a comb he pressed into her hand. "You don't want to show up at the Triple D like that."

No, she didn't. "Thank you," she said, and began to work the comb through the massive snarl atop her head. After a few moments, he came closer.

"I can… work on the other side with my fingers," he offered, sounding very uncomfortable.

"Thank you," Sansa said politely. "I would appreciate it."

"Always chirping," he muttered, but he began to carefully work his fingers through the mass falling over her other shoulder.

 _Chirping?_ She couldn't have heard him right. "Beg pardon?"

"Nothing."

It wasn't nothing, but she was too tired to squabble about it, at that moment.

It took less time, with two people working at it, and soon her hair lay smooth and shining down her back.

"I'll braid it," she announced, then felt stupid; Sheriff Clegane would not care what she did with it now.

Except he did. "Wait here," he said again, leaving and returning with a strip of cloth in sky-blue. "To tie the end."

And in spite of what a wretched day it had been, a smile curved her lips, more and more until she was beaming at him.

 _He's so_ _sweet_ , she thought with no small amount of surprise. _I wonder if anyone else knows how sweet he is._ Then she surprised herself again by wanting to keep that knowledge to herself, her own little secret. _Sheriff Clegane is as sweet as honey, and I'm the only one who knows._

He stared down at her, looking almost dazed. Probably not a lot of people smiled at him. Soon he recovered, however, and said, "You want me to braid it, or do it yourself?"

She blinked. "Y-you can do it," she replied. It would probably come out looking a fright, lopsided and too-tight on one side but sagging on the other. Men were awful at styling hair, it was known. But when he was done, she patted the back of her head and drew the long hank over her shoulder and inspected it, and it didn't seem too bad at all.

At the bottom, securing the end, was a perfect bow.

"Thank you," she said once more. He gave a jerky nod, but said nothing. "Am I not chirping this time?" she quipped, wanting to tease him.

"You're always chirping," he grumbled, but there was no venom to it. "Let's go, before it gets too dark."

Sansa peered around his bulk and out the window. He wasn't wrong; the sun had set and dusk was gaining in strength. It would be full night before long. But… " _let's_ go"?

"Are you… coming with me?" she asked, frowning in puzzlement. Why would he?

He scowled. "I'm not letting you ride the back roads by yourself in the dark."

"It's not dangerous," she protested. "Not anymore. All that's done with."

But the sheriff just swung open the door and gestured for her to precede him outside. "Don't care. I'm going." Sansa heaved a sigh and gave up. _Stubborn man._ "If you want to waste your time, that's fine with me," she said, sweeping past him.

"Could be I don't consider it a waste," was his reply as he followed her to Lady. His hands dwarfed her waist as he threw her up into the saddle.

By the time she'd arranged her knee around the pommel and gotten her foot properly situated in the stirrup, he was astride his own black demon-horse, the one that bit anyone who came near it except for him.

Town was near-deserted by that time, all the shops closed for the day, the only signs of life at the saloon. From within came the rowdy noises of people enjoying themselves, and as they trotted past, Sansa craned her neck to catch a glimpse of whatever secrets hid within.

"You're not missing a thing," said Clegane. "Trust me."

"I do," she said, and knew she meant it. "Trust you, that is."

He did not reply, and they turned right out of town to skirt the Colorado a few miles. It wasn't until after they'd turned down the Triple D's long drive that he said, "You shouldn't."

She turned to look at him. Like the last time they'd ridden together, his face was in shadow. A mere glint of moonlight reflected in his eyes, so his expression was a mystery to her.

"And yet I do anyway," Sansa said, her tone purposefully light. He didn't respond that time, either, but she had the feeling he was watching her instead of the road the rest of the way to the house.

When they arrived, he dismounted and helped her down.

"Thank you," she said a third time. She had the urge to kiss his cheek, to give him more than just words to show her gratitude, but her courage failed her; another day, she might be bold enough for such an act, but that was not the day. She was as wrung-out as an old washrag.

The sheriff surprised her by mumbling, "Welcome," before turning abruptly and returning to his horse. Without another word, he climbed astride and rode off, leaving her standing on the neat-combed gravel in front of the main house.

She watched him until he was swallowed by shadows. Climbing the steps to the door, she raised her hand to knock but before her knuckles could land it swung open.

"Miss Stark," said the young woman who answered. "Come in."

Sansa was beckoned to follow the woman along the pergola to the building that sat at its far end, then to enter. Inside was a glorious library, lit by a cheery fire. Jon sat on a plump armchair before it, book on crossed knee and face intent as he read; Dany was seated behind an oaken monstrosity of a desk, head bent and pen flying across paper.

The young woman cleared her throat, and both heads lifted to attend the interruption. At the sight of Sansa, Jon sprang to his feet and approached.

"Sansa?" he said. "What's wrong?" His hands came to clasp her arms, just as the sheriff's had, and she noticed his grip was harder, less careful, than Clegane's.

"Nothing's wrong," she hurried to say. "No one's hurt or— or anything." She couldn't bring herself to say 'dead'. "I just…" Jon released her and let out a long, relieved breath.

Dany joined them, her face placid, and Sansa took comfort from it. "What's wrong?" Dany asked. "Do you need help?"

"I don't mean to impose. I'm so sorry for the intrusion, but can I… can I stay? With you? Here?" Sansa babbled. "Not for long, perhaps only a week or two—"

"Of course," Jon said.

"You may stay forever, if you like," Dany added with a smile.

Sansa let them draw her over to Jon's chair by the fire, and the young woman— Missandei— brought tea and pear tartlets. In short order Sansa was in a lovely suite of rooms, bundled into bed by Dany herself after Jon fetched her valise from Lady. Her last thought before she fell asleep was of how safe she'd felt in the sheriff's arms…

…and how soon she could find her way there again.

.

* * *

.

Tyrion V

Tyrion swirled the amber liquor in his glass clockwise, then counterclockwise, more than halfway to drunk. In that strange and nebulous zone of proto-intoxication, he was prone to contemplating past events and the mistakes, his own and others', that had led him to his present situation.

Not for the first time, he wondered about Tysha.

 _Ah, Tysha._ She'd been a shy girl, Mexican, and sweet as the comfits served at Cersei's farce of a wedding to Bobby Baratheon. Jaime had gotten catastrophically drunk at the reception, and wanting company, had coerced Tyrion to join him. Totally castaway, they'd staggered back to Casterly Rock and gotten as far as the entrance foyer. Losing the battle against the whiskey, and rye, and bourbon, and wine, and everything else they'd imbibed, they passed out.

Just eleven, Tyrion had been terribly sick for several days. Jaime had been too sunk in his own misery to do more than apologize before staggering off to drink more. Tywin could not have bothered less about the state of his youngest child's health, so his care had fallen to the servants.

And to one servant in particular; Tysha, only three years his senior, had taken pity on him and nursed him tenderly through his hangover, through the dehydration and headache and nausea. She made him swear never to drink again, and he had laughingly agreed, but hadn't meant it.

They'd become friends, though they'd hidden it from his father and her superior, the housekeeper. And as the years passed, friendship turned to love, each of them shocked to find it returned. That, too, they hid, and Tyrion wracked his brains to find some way they might be together. Before he arrived at a solution, however, disaster struck, and their secret was discovered.

Tysha was dismissed and sent away forthwith. Tyrion was given a dressing down by his father such as most people never even dreamed could be possible. It was punctuated by a whipping (administered by the head groom, as Tywin would never lower himself to such a thing as a _spanking_ ) at the humiliating age of fifteen.

And he'd never seen her again.

She was a whore, his father had coldly informed him, a prostitute who'd claimed she wanted to set herself on a new road of earning a living on her feet rather than on her back. She'd gotten ambitious, stated Tywin, found herself a susceptible patsy, thought she might catch herself a wealthy husband and never have to work again.

For years, Tyrion been consumed by a single question: _where had she gone?_

All through college, all through his law apprenticeship, he'd wondered. Was she still in Kingsland? In Texas? Was she even alive? With Tywin, nothing was certain; it was definitely within the realm of possibility that he'd had her killed. Only when he met Shae had his longing to know begun to fade, replaced by a glow of… well, not happiness, Lannisters were never truly happy, but… satisfaction? Pleasure?

But Shae was not with him, there in Kingsland, and the wondering had crept back to him on silent paws, insinuating itself mercilessly, lodging in a section of his brain even the most poisonous amount of alcohol was not able to erase.

 _Where had Tysha gone?_

Nor was his other method of distraction present. With Bronn off to San Francisco, Tyrion was bored, but there was nothing for it. Not like he could have the Greyjoys in for cigars and cognac. Yara had already made an overture to him, but Tyrion had a particular rule about sharing women with his friends. Not that Bronn could truly be counted as a friend, but close enough, to Tyrion's way of thinking, and he sent her on her way.

He had no desire to visit the saloon. Lannisters did not socialize with hoi polloi, and the caliber of intimate companion to be found there would be almost painful after acquaintance with Shae's luscious bounty of charms. Tyrion would rather be alone than suffer through a joyless, questionably pleasurable encounter with a frowse by whom he would not be the only man serviced that evening, nor even the third or fourth. Better to stew in frustration, instead.

He took a sip from the crystal snifter, feeling pensive. Dinner had been acceptable, he allowed. With access to a well-appointed kitchen and high-quality ingredients, Theon was proving himself adequate to the task of cooking to Tyrion's expectations, and showed improvement, besides. Yara did what was required of her without complaint (though with considerable smirking and innuendo-laden jokes), and he could not reasonably find fault with either of them.

Until that moment; Theon had just come to him to announce that, at that late hour of the evening, he had a caller.

"It's nearly nine o'clock!" Tyrion protested, cigar aloft in one hand, after removing it from between his teeth, and snifter akimbo in the other.

"Says it's important," Theon replied. "Says he won't go away until you see him. Says you'll be glad."

"Well, if I'll be _glad_ ," Tyrion muttered, querulous. A week of solitude without Bronn, and far longer without Shae, and his mood turned right to shit. Well, at least it was a deviation from the dullness of the night he'd thought to spend by himself, drinking, reading, smoking, drinking… "Fine, show him in."

He did not bother to stand, however; intrude on a man past dinnertime and you ran the risk of an unmannerly reception.

To his surprise, Sandor Clegane appeared in the doorway, making it seem to have shrunk by a foot with his mere gigantic presence.

"Ah, Sheriff," Tyrion drawled, "you honor me with your visit. To what do I owe—"

"Baelish," interrupted the sheriff, not a man for courtesies and platitudes. Tyrion conceded the point and waited for him to go on. In the ensuing silence, he continued, "I know you're going after Baelish, to clear your brother's name."

"How did you—" began Tyrion, but halted himself; of course Clegane knew. Somewhere, someone had whispered to someone else, and it had caught fire, a spark of gossip to brighten the dreary humdrum of life in Kingsland. "And?"

"And I can give him to you."

Tyrion waved to the armchair across from himself, on the opposite side of the fire, before thinking better of it; that chair was a bit spindly, and not up to the challenge of supporting a fellow as monumental as the sheriff.

"No, take this," he said, evacuating his own seat. Formerly his father's, now his, it was solid enough to hold up a mountain. Once he clambered up onto his new perch, and Clegane settled upon his, he continued, "How do you believe you can give me Baelish?"

"Because I've seen him fuck over people in this town for years," rumbled the sheriff. "Got some records and papers showing it, too. I'll give them all to you." He paused. "And I'll testify."

Tyrion stared at him a long moment, forgetting to sip his drink or puff his cigar, so intent was he upon his perusal of the unlovely chap staring so fiercely at him.

"You do realize," he drawled, "that by admitting your own part in this, you'd be presenting yourself for a certainty of arrest and charges of collusion? That there's an excellent chance you'll go to prison?"

"I'm aware." Clegane watched him, steadily, unwavering, a statue hewn of granite and pure orneriness. He said nothing more.

Tyrion recalled his cigar and cognac; he drew on the former, then took a pull of the latter.

"Well," he said at last, "it's your funeral. Possibly in the literal sense." He scrutinized the other man, looking for a clue as to such a baffling, spontaneous wish to fling one's self upon the altar of justice after a decade doing the opposite. In the firelight, something glinted copper and bronze on the gray fabric of Clegane's shirt.

"What's that?" he asked, gesturing with the cigar. "You've got a little something—"

Clegane looked at where Tyrion had motioned and pinched from his sleeve what Tyrion realized was a very long strand of auburn hair. His face grave and his manner precise, the sheriff began to curl the strand around and around his finger, until it was wound into a silken coil. Instead of tossing into the fire as most would have done, however, he tucked carefully into his breast pocket.

 _Ah,_ thought Tyrion as the sheriff stood and left without another word, _another fool for love._ If he weren't mistaken, that strand of hair was Tully-red. He pitted his intellect against the mystery of Clegane's lady's identity, and swiftly arrived at the reason for the sheriff's presence at Casterly Rock that night.

He just hoped Jon Snow appreciated how dearly bought his freedom had been. He knew Jaime would.


	29. Chapter 29

.

Dany VI

It was no great surprise to Dany that a rift had formed between her and Jon, though she was increasingly upset about it by the day. She just didn't know how to cross it, to mend the breach. Dany knew she was unreasonable, but… his comment during dinner with Tyrion had infuriated her. It had seemed like he only took her to bed because the specter of execution breathed down his neck, as if she were devoid of any personal charms that might otherwise inspire him to it.

Is that how it truly was? Was there nothing between them besides their bargain? Was all the tenderness and passion and emotion they'd shared— or which she'd _thought_ they had shared— one-sided? Was it entirely in her head and her heart, and nowhere within him at all? Had she truly been that mistaken, judged the situation so poorly? Dany had offered her heart to him with the hope— no, the _belief_ — that he'd understand the magnitude of such a gesture, would appreciate it, would value and esteem it.

Would give her his own in exchange.

But if she had been so wrong, if he didn't care for her beyond how she pleased him in bed, if he serviced her under duress because of their agreement, she didn't want him. It made her skin crawl, soured their marriage into something cheap and tawdry and horrible, as if she'd hired a prostitute… and not only that, but that she'd hired one who resented her for his need to take her coin.

Dany couldn't bear it. The moment Jon had said those words, she'd known she would hire Tyrion, regardless of whether or not Jon wanted to. That had been the only thing she was certain of, that night; that, and not being able to countenance the idea of sleeping beside her husband as if nothing were wrong. As if he hadn't admitted— to a perfect stranger!— that he only bedded her to escape death, as if he hadn't stomped away and left her to cope with the awkwardness left in his wake.

To his credit, Tyrion had left soon thereafter, clearly recognizing the tension and being loath to make it worse. After a promise to keep her updated with daily reports, he'd collected his driver and they'd been off. A fine glow of anger had settled in Dany's belly, and a wish to distance herself from him. The seraglio room promised a distraction, would perhaps help take her mind off how irked she was at Jon… and her simmering lust for him.

That was yet another change her body was experiencing: a constant thrum of physical desire had plagued her for the past week, beginning not long after the realization of her pregnancy. It had gripped her so fiercely that, when Jon was gone for the day, she had to give herself relief, and at night, she used him hard, wearing him out with multiple climaxes. After Tyrion left, her needs had been no less fierce; if anything, they were stronger, buoyed by her anger.

By the time Missandei had led Jon to the seraglio room, despite her intentions to keep him at arm's length, she'd been glad to see him. They'd made love— no, they'd fucked, she must use the proper term— and fallen asleep.

But for all the exotic novelty of the room, sleeping on a mound of cushions was not terribly restful; they insisted on shifting all over, being lumpy where she wanted them smooth and providing no padding where she needed it most. Dany had woken before dawn and left Jon there, unconscious.

After washing and dressing, she'd found Missandei starting her day in the kitchen, going over the day's menus with the cook.

"Is my parents' suite ready?" she asked, for Missandei had been managing the renovation of those rooms. She'd reported them nearly ready for use only a few days earlier.

Missandei nodded. "All that's left is to hang the drapes, make the bed, and move your things into it."

"Do that today, then, please," said Dany. "But leave Mr. Snow's things where they are."

Missandei's features didn't give a single twitch to indicate her thoughts on the matter, but her dark eyes softened as she gave another nod and bustled away to begin.

"I want dinner ready to be served within fifteen minutes of Mr. Snow's arrival in the evening," was Dany's next directive. Her idea was that, if she kept his schedule regimented, there would be less opportunity for awkwardness between them. He'd come home, they'd eat, she'd retreat to the library to work, then go to bed. They could see each other for meals, exchange pleasantries, and that would be it.

And once his conviction had been overturned, he would go. Tyrion would push through their divorce, and it would be over.

Except Jon didn't seem to agree with her concept of a genteel neglect of each other. He picked up right away on her efforts to keep him at an emotional arm's length, shooting her dark glances that were by turns confused, irritated, frustrated, and just plain weary.

That first night, Jon had made an overture to her, coming up behind her as she sat working at her desk. He'd swept aside her hair and applied his lips to the nape of her neck, behind her ear, while trailing his fingertips down her throat to delve into her cleavage. He coaxed her to stand, urging her to sit in the same chair in which he'd deflowered her, but she'd refused; she'd not sully that memory, would not replace it with something that seemed sordid in comparison.

She'd gone to the chesterfield, rather, stretching out along it, letting him cover her with his strong, lean body. She'd let him strip her, touch her, and she'd reacted when he'd tongued her to a blazing peak, but she couldn't bring herself to do more. She'd never before thought about her actions when making love with him; her brain had shut down and her body had taken over, directing her every move in its need to pet and caress and kiss and lick and squeeze and hold.

The odd detachment she now experienced made such relinquishment of her senses impossible, and so she merely put her legs around his waist, and her hands on his shoulders, and stared past his head at the carved oak ceiling far overhead. His thrusting was pleasurable, and she reached another, weaker climax a moment before his, but the surrender she'd always felt before was absent. She couldn't restrain the tears that leaked from her eyes, trailing down her temples to dampen her hair, as she came.

Jon had levered himself off of her, face relaxed, eyes soft… until he saw the wet trails on her cheeks, before she was able to hastily wipe them away. He looked horrified that he'd made her weep, and after adjusting his clothes, stood helplessly as she stood and put her own garments to rights.

"Dany," he said. "Something's gone very wrong between us." He swallowed, clearly distressed. "I didn't mean anything by what I said, when Tyrion was here. Can we— just forget I said it?"

But how? Dany knew, better than most, what truth lay in words spoken in the grip of emotion. Her parents had, when enraged, spoken the secrets they dared not reveal in calmer moments. _They_ had had an unspoken agreement that the insults and vitriol spewed during their rows would be forgotten, pretended to have never been said, but once released, how could they be taken back? Jon would not have had the words so easily on his lips if he hadn't been thinking about it, hadn't been feeling that way. Now that Dany knew how he viewed their marriage, and her, how could she pretend she didn't?

"I don't think I can," she replied quietly. "But it's— fine. You've done your part, and I shall do mine. You don't have to live here, if you don't want. I know you miss your family, so if you want to return to the Northpoint—"

" _No_ ," he said. "You won't run me out of my own home. Not like that."

He didn't understand, was taking it wrong, but Dany was too tired to try to correct him.

"As you wish," she therefore said. "I've moved into my parents' room. You'll have the same access to my accounts in town, so feel free to—"

"No, thank you," he said icily. "I have my wages from working. I never wanted your money."

 _Nor me. You only wanted your freedom. And the damnable part of it is, I can't blame you._

She nodded. "Please don't think I expect anything from you. You don't owe me your company; if you'd like to eat separately—"

"I wouldn't."

"—or spend your evenings apart, instead of with me while I work—"

"Not that, either."

"—I won't take it poorly, " Dany concluded, but she already had her answer. The next evening, they endured a tense dinner before retiring to the library. Jon read by the fire as she finished up the interminable paperwork of the day, and both were intensely glad for the interruption when Sansa, of all people, appeared long after dark.

Jon had come to her later, apologizing for tendering the invitation to his sister without asking her first, but Dany truly did not mind. She liked Sansa very much, liked having a sister even more, and if Sansa did not come to hate her for being on poor terms with Jon, would be appreciated company and a valuable buffer between them.

Dany was surprised how easily Sansa fit into their lives. She had perfect manners and was eager to help any way she could; also, she had a cast-iron stomach and did not shy away from helping Dany with her bouts of morning nausea. She got on well with Missandei and had a deft touch at dismissing Jorah when he came for his daily dose of yearning stares in Dany's direction.

She also had a fine hand and was happy to do rote work, such as copying form letters, so Dany could concentrate on things that required her attention. That alone reduced the workload so significantly that Dany had no more need to continue working after dinner, to her pleasure.

Once Sansa was gone— because she wouldn't stay forever, Dany was positive Sheriff Clegane would press his suit eventually; a man didn't look at a woman the way he looked at Sansa without pursuing her at some point— Dany would have to obtain a secretary to assist with the mundane tasks she'd been performing all along. She felt rather stupid, actually, that she hadn't thought of hiring one already.

But she was used to doing everything by herself. Accepting help was foreign to her; she'd always been the one taking care of everyone else, mediating her parents' arguments, solving Viserys' crises. It had set her apart from them, had established her as the responsible one and them as the ones who needed tending. Then overseeing the Targaryen holdings had only established her more firmly as having a commanding role. Dealing with others on an equal basis, where none were more in control than the other, made her seem all at sea.

As the days passed, the persistent arousal faded, replaced by feeling more and more unwell. Her nausea endured longer in the mornings, and she tired easily, needing to lay down and rest and eventually even falling asleep. Her appetite did not recover, and she found herself picking at her meals without enthusiasm.

Sansa seemed to think it her duty to remedy all of the above and could be found whispering with Missandei as they planned meals that might tempt Dany into eating more substantially, but without success. The only thing she could tolerate was the ghastly ginger tea, drinking cup after cup all day long even as she grimaced at its taste and how it would prickle her tongue with its sharpness.

She'd wonder, later on, if it were the tea that did it.

One morning, late, Sansa left off writing letters and went to tell Missandei they'd like lunch.

"Let's take it on the veranda!" she exclaimed. "There's a breeze, and the bluebonnets are in full bloom. It'll be lovely."

Dany agreed, not really caring where they ate, and soon they were in the rocking chairs on the veranda, a plate of little sandwiches on each woman's knee and tea— Sansa's cold and sweet, Dany's hot and overly spicy— on the little table between them.

Dany became aware of a faint ache in her belly. At first she thought it might be hunger, then as it strengthened, that her body was rebelling against all the ginger tea, and set her cup aside. Sansa sent her an inquiring glance but she managed a tight-lipped pretense of a smile.

Suddenly a lance of agony ripped through her, and a hot, wet gush spilled from between her legs, turning the spring green of her skirt red-black.

"Dany!" Sansa exclaimed, but it sounded like it came from far away as Dany's vision narrowed to a pinpoint, and then winked out entirely.

.

* * *

.

Brienne VII

Brienne woke all wrapped around Jaime yet again, to her immense mortification. Fortunately, he was fast asleep and not privy to the conflict that gripped her.

Also fortunately, he did not seem uncomfortable, if the way his arms were also around her was any indication. He smelled good, a sort of musky aroma she'd noticed before on men who were not soapy-fresh from the bath but still clean, the natural scent of male skin. He was the first man on whom she'd ever found it mouth-watering, however. His chest hair, just as golden as that on his head, his eyebrows, and the intriguing stubble on his jaw, glinted in the sunlight that slanted through the window. It was soft and springy. A caramel-colored nipple was directly beneath the pad of her index finger, and she realized the other must be under her cheek.

She spent a few minutes trying to muster up the rationale for her abandonment the prior night, for some reason to explain how she'd thrown caution to the wind and let Jaime… well, not make love to her, not entirely, but enough to let him close, closer than anyone else had ever been.

But there was nothing she could say, no way she could shovel the blame on him. It had been entirely her. He'd kissed her, but she'd been the one rubbing herself again him, going so far as to put his hand on her breast! She hadn't been forced or even coerced. She had wanted him, and she had let herself have him, as much as she could manage without risking a baby.

 _Gods_ , yes, she had wanted him. Wanted him again, at that very moment. Brienne wished she had the courage to be truly spontaneous, that she had the confidence to initiate making love to Jaime without him kissing her first. She wanted to whip off the blankets and put her hands and mouth on him. She wanted to rub her fingertip over his nipple, to turn her face enough to reach the other one with her mouth. She wanted to make them harden, wanted to hear his moan at the suction and wetness. Tension coiled within her, making her restless and reckless, an uncomfortable combination. The knowledge that he wouldn't mind, that he'd openly welcome it, made it all the more difficult to resist the impulse.

But he would leave. He would leave, and she'd be even more bereft by his absence, if she permitted any other encroachment of her boundaries. She was barely hanging on as it was.

That grim prospect seemed all the grimmer, now, after the previous night's debauchery. The memory of it made her muscles contract, and she realized with dismay that her arm, slung so companionably around his waist, had tightened. Brienne held her breath in terror that it would wake him, but he only kept laying there, doing nothing but breathing, as if the extraordinary scene of lewdness had never taken place the night before. She resented his utter peace and lack of conflict about it.

 _This is all too stressful,_ she thought, feeling harassed.

With exquisite slowness, she lifted her arm from around Jaime. When that didn't disturb him, she peeled the rest of herself away to lay on her own side of the bed, flat on her back and breathing like she'd just carried a steer. On her shoulders. Uphill.

Everywhere she'd been touching him, previously nice and warm, prickled at the cool early-morning air. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, lights pinwheeling behind her eyelids, and gathered herself together for the task of acting normal for the day. Finally, she heaved herself out of bed.

It was still very early, dawn more a suggestion than a reality, and she made short work of getting fresh clothes and creeping from their bedroom. Not wanting to disturb poor Pod so early by washing in the barn, she gave herself a whore's bath in the kitchen, dressed, and put the coffee on.

Brienne leaned a hip against the sink, crossed her arms, and stared dully at the floor while waiting for the water to boil. She pondering the wisdom of her idea to make a small room in the barn for Pod. He should have some privacy, instead of just sleeping in the loft and keeping his things in a battered old trunk in the corner and hanging his clothes on nails hammered into the wall. But if Jaime and the children were leaving when the appeal went through, Pod likely would go with them. Was the expense and effort worth it?

A touch on her arm had her looking up in surprise. Jaime was there, watching her curiously.

"You alright?" he asked. "I said your name a few times. And the coffee is ready."

"Ah," she said, "sorry. I was thinking."

"I can see that," he said, smiling, and took a dishcloth to pick up the coffee pot. He poured them each a cup, handing one to her and watching her carefully while she, just as carefully, avoided eye contact and sipped in silence. "What were you thinking about?"

"Whether or not to make a room for Pod in the barn," she replied, deciding to be honest with him, at least about that much. She didn't have to reveal why she was undecided about it.

Jaime nodded. "I was thinking we could build a bunkhouse. Only a matter of time before we hire on more hands, isn't it? Might as well do it sooner rather than later."

"Can't afford a bunkhouse," she muttered. "I've got enough spare boards to make two more walls in a corner of the loft, and building a bed and wardrobe or cupboard for him is easy. There's wood enough for that, too."

Left unsaid: _Once you're gone, I won't be able to expand the ranch, so there will be no need for more hands, and thus no need for an entire separate bunkhouse._

"My money is yours, now," he said mildly, with a frown, "and _we_ can afford a dozen bunkhouses. I thought, also, we could get started on adding at least one bedroom, for now, so Pa and Tommen don't have to continue to share."

"Can't afford that, either."

"Brienne…"

"No, Jaime."

"But—"

" _No._ "

"You're just being obstinate," he argued, looking frustrated. "You have to admit it's crowded in here, and we could do with expanding the house. There's no reason not to."

 _There's plenty of reason,_ she thought, irritated to be pressed about it.

"The E-Star is still my father's property, despite his illness," she began, about to say that they couldn't do anything without Pa's say-so, and that he didn't want any changes made.

"He thinks it's a terrific idea," said Jaime. "We talk about it when I help him every morning and night, in fact. He's had a few ideas about adding on a washroom, so we don't have to head out to the barn to bathe, and—"

Her irritation flared into full-blown anger. "You talked to him about it behind my back?"

His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed.

"No," he said coldly. "Well, yes, only in that we discussed it without your presence, but there was no secrecy about it." He paused. "I'd never manipulate you, or him, into doing what I want." He let out a harsh, derisive laugh. "If I wanted to do that, I'd have gotten started weeks ago. And it wouldn't be about building additions."

Brienne flushed, because she knew he meant her. _Sex_. He had been as persuasive as a man could be, using every weapon in his considerable arsenal, to get her to bend to his will. It was to her immense misfortune that their goals— to make love until they exhausted themselves and each other— were perfectly aligned, and thus she was so very susceptible to him.

"So you walk around all the time without a shirt because you're just trying to get some sun?" she snapped. "You hold my hand and call me a pet name and kiss my cheek because you just want to be pals? Yes, I'm sure your motives are pure."

She set her coffee cup down hard on the table and stalked out the back door, unsure where she was going but needing to be away from him.

Of course, he followed her.

"I didn't do that to manipulate you, either," Jaime said. He reached out and grabbed her arm, tugging her to a halt. "I'm trying to get you to admit you love me."

"You don't think that's manipulation?" Brienne asked, incredulous. She wrenched her arm free and kept walking.

"It's not," he said stubbornly, "because I'm not trying to change your mind about anything. I only want you to be honest with me. And yourself. You won't do it without being pushed."

"Maybe I don't want to be pushed."

"I think you do. I think that's the only way you'll ever let yourself go." When she ignored him, he pressed on. "Like the way you let yourself go, that first time. I _saw_ you. I _heard_ you."

Brienne went very still, frozen as waves of humiliation crashed over her.

"You brought yourself off, right in front of me." Jaime chest heaved with agitation. "And you watched me, too."

Brienne panted, too, unable to catch her breath, her fingers gone cold with horror even as the rest of her flamed with desire, because she couldn't seem to purge her memory of what he had done to her. The ferocity of how he kissed her, the velvet brush of his tongue between her legs, how he moved and arched and trembled as she took him in her mouth, the bitter and oddly compelling taste of his spend—

His gaze roamed over her face, and whatever he saw made his pupils flare until they swallowed the green of his irises. He stepped right up to her, his body far too close for comfort.

"What I don't know is why you're fighting it, why you're fighting me. We want each other. We're _married_. We want children. You're the only thing keeping us apart."

The sight of him, so close, was making her head spin. He smelled of coffee and clean laundry and warm, healthy male. Brienne was on fire, love and want pooling in her belly and between her legs and blazing in her heart.

"Oh, god _damn_ you," she said, and pushed Jaime up against the house. She crushed her mouth against his, having no idea what she was doing, so little experience in this, needing to touch him, to feel and smell and taste him—

"Gently," he murmured, hands in her hair keeping her from pressing too harshly close. He played his mouth against hers, tongue flickering between her lips, making her shudder and run her hands everywhere over him. She rubbed against him, shameless as a cat in heat. Her tongue didn't seem to belong to her anymore, acting on its own volition to flicker at his teeth, the roof of his mouth, the satin lining of his cheek.

When he pulled his mouth from hers, sucking in a ragged breath, her mouth kept going, trailing down his throat, enjoying the prickle of his beard against her sensitive lips. She pulled aside the collar of his shirt and buried her face against the join of neck and shoulder, inhaling his scent before closing her teeth around the sloping muscle there, as she'd longed to do for the longest time. Jaime bucked against her, their heights so perfectly aligned that his hard cock pressed directly between her legs, stroking sweetly against her.

His big hands slid down her back to her backside, and he wrenched her against him, grinding their hips together. She kissed him again, deeply and hard, so that his head was pressed back against the house. Did he mind that Brienne was being so aggressive? She couldn't seem to stop herself. Some tether within her had snapped and now she was helpless to hold back all the yearning and lust she'd kept contained for so long, day after interminable day of being near him.

His groan was ragged, and he kissed her almost frantically, rocking his pelvis against hers. It caused the hard ridge of his erection to slide right against her and Brienne moaned at the sensation. It made her tongue vibrate against his, a little ticklish and a lot arousing, and his hips bucked against hers again.

Brienne was drenched, the wet material of her smallclothes clinging to and sliding against her swollen flesh. The heat of his arousal radiated through their clothes, tantalizing and teasing her with the promise of what he'd feel like against her, bare. The thought of them nude and rubbing against each other like they were had her dragging him somehow even more tightly against her, lost to the thrust of his tongue and hips against hers.

Jaime's hand slipped under her shirt to cup one of her slight breasts, his palm warm and strong around her. His fingers pinched her nipple, hard, and with a gasp, as if she were drowning, Brienne shuddered and pitched headlong into rapture, grinding and grinding herself against him.

Jaime cried out, into her mouth, and writhed against her, shaking through a climax that caused Brienne's to go on and on long past when it should have ended, excitement thrumming persistently through her veins. He hadn't stopped kissing her even once, not since the moment his mouth had touched hers. Even then, when they'd both come and were slowly calming, his tongue twined and slid against hers so passionately she thought she could keep going indefinitely.

He opened dazed green eyes to stare at her, then rotated them so it was he pressing her against the house.

"My _wife_ ," he said, just like last time, their damp lips brushing with each word. " _Mine_."

"Yours," she agreed mindlessly. She _was_ his, body and heart and soul.

"Tell me you'll never leave me."

"…Jaime?" Her heart constricted. Cruel, it was so _cruel_ , to have the prospect of forever dangled before her like this.

"Say it, Brienne. Say you'll never leave me. _Please_."

But he wasn't being cruel. She knew him, by now… at least that much. He had been abandoned over and over, mother and brother and father and sister and son. He needed the illusion of permanency. It was the least she could give him.

"I'll never leave you." And she wouldn't. If they parted, it would be because _he_ had gone, not her.

He groaned, and buried his face in her hair. "Do you mean it?"

"I mean it." Once begun, the words kept tumbling out. "I don't think I can live without you anymore." _I don't know how I'll survive, once you're gone._

He shuddered against her, and her hands relaxed their grip on his shoulders to wrap around his chest, holding him close enough to feel the thud of his heart against where her own was pounding.

"I love you," he breathed. "Brienne. I love you. _I love you_."

 _Then why are you pursuing an appeal?_ she wailed internally, even as she clung to him, trembling. _Why are you doing the exact thing you need to do to get away from me?_


	30. Chapter 30

Tyrion VI

Tyrion did not let any grass grow beneath his feet; now that he had permission from both parties to work— and knew he would be paid by one of them— and Clegane had presented his formidable self in support of the venture, he got to work.

He went to the by-then-abandoned Double B and rummaged through Bobby's files and drawers until he located perhaps not _the_ will, but _a_ will. It was dated seven years earlier, and there was every chance a later one with different bequests had been created. If they could not find it, however, this would be the one that stood should Stannis or Cersei try to dispute it.

Yes, Cersei… Bobby had left half of his estate to Joffrey and one quarter each to Myrcella and Tommen, with no mention of his wife whatsoever. It had been witnessed by Stannis and Ned Stark. Ned was gone, but there was little on the earth or in the heavens that would have kept Stannis from fighting to keep Cersei from inheriting a dollar. Of course, if he got wind of the news his brother had not fathered the children, his fight would have taken the form of trying to inherit everything himself, as Bobby's next-of-kin.

With Joffrey gone on to his richly deserved reward— was likely being taunted by a cadre of demons with their pointiest pitchforks at that very moment, in fact— that meant that the estate would be split equally between the other two children. A rudimentary glance at the rest of the paperwork present indicated that Bobby's typical slipshod attitude toward paperwork, combined with the drunken apathy that characterized him, meant that the inheritance was not as substantial as it could have been.

Tyrion had Yara and Theon scour the house and barn for a sturdy box of adequate size. Upon finding one, he crammed the contents of Bobby's files into it, to be toted back to Casterly Rock; with the Double B abandoned, he didn't want to risk any valuable documentation going missing or even being destroyed. Nothing had happened yet, but there was every chance that, eventually, Kingsland's bad element would take advantage and either loot the place or squat in it. Tyrion put even money on a random Greyjoy deciding no one would be the wiser and ensconcing themselves.

Which gave him an idea…

"What do you think of having your family come and work the Double B?" he asked his employees on the way home. Someone had to tend the cattle; they'd had the run of the land over the course of the summer, while grass was plenty and the weather was mild, but come winter, they'd need to be fed and corralled.

Alternatively, they could simply be sold off, and the ranch boarded up, but then Tyrion would have to hire guards. He didn't want his niblings' legacy ransacked or burned to the ground for lack of care and protection.

Theon, seated across from him in the carriage, shot him a look that said he was mad; Yara, driving the team, laughed.

"Not your mad uncle, of course," Tyrion clarified. "But the rest of them. Uncles, brothers, nephews… there are over a dozen of you, and most are off terrorizing Central Texas's stagecoaches instead of earning a living like decent godsfearing people. Might any of them be hankering for a change of pace?"

"Greyjoys aren't good at setting down roots," Yara replied after a moment's thought. "We gotta be on the road. We were doing well before dear Uncle Euron got impatient with how long it took to turn a profit and the need to invest some of it in the coaches and teams. If he hadn't convinced the others to quit, we'd be running from here to Lubbock by now, maybe even Amarillo." She was silent for a moment, seeming lost in thought. "Been working every job I can manage to save up the money to fix up the old coaches and start over, this time with me in charge."

Then she turned in the seat and fixed Tyrion with a piercing stare.

"I'm the only one of us smart enough to manage the place, but I'm already spoken for," Yara replied. "Though I bet I could talk Rodrik into taking my place at the Rock… he's been on a bender for, what's it been, Theon? Two weeks now?"

"Three," corrected Theon. "Give him something to do, at least. Somewhere to sleep. Been sleeping in the Seaworth's loft, the last few days."

"I'm sure Davos loves that," commented Tyrion. He hadn't intended on beginning an employment-slash-sobriety haven for wayward Greyjoys, but that appeared to be what he'd committed himself to.

Yara snorted. "As if Davos knows."

Tyrion sighed. "Yes, have Rodrik take your position at the Rock, and you go to the Double B to take that in hand. If any of your family want a job at the ranch— and you can trust them not to strip it down to the joists— hire them on."

The next day, he left for Austin, leaving the Greyjoys to settle things among themselves. First stop: the criminal division of the courthouse, to acquire the judgments of conviction that Baelish would have filed, to see what excuses he'd given for such hasty and scantily supported verdicts. Then on to the civil division, where he refreshed himself about the requirements for divorce in the state of Texas, being familiar only with those of South Carolina. Finally, he hied himself to the probate attorney's to see about Bobby's will.

He studied the judgments the entire train ride back to Kingsland, and supposed he must be so accustomed to living in a civilized state that Texas' seat-of-the-pants approach to justice outside its cities seemed particularly barbaric. How could a man be condemned to hanging based on the hearsay evidence of unreliable testimony?

Back in Charleston, he'd have had the likes of both his idiot cousin, Lancel, and Meryn Trant laughed out of the state itself, let alone out of the courtroom. And there hadn't even been any prosecutors! Just Clegane as sheriff serving in that role. _Preposterous_. Was no one providing oversight to the circuit courts and their judges?

There were no transcripts. No signed affidavits from the witnesses. No tangible evidence; the stone supposed to be the murder weapon Jaime had theoretically wielded had not been presented, nor the unusual bullet from a rare gun that was all Baelish had needed to believe Jon Snow was Joffrey's murderer. And the examining doctor in both cases had not been questioned on the stand, though Doc Pycelle had been useless before Tyrion had left Texas and only grown worse in the interim before his return. Easily discredited— if one bothered to try, which no one had— little Pycelle said could be seen as reliable testimony, in any case.

It was worse than a farce; it was a travesty of justice, and Tyrion felt his sense of moral outrage— typically sluggish and rarely stirred— rise up, swelling in indignation. He had the wording of the notices to appeal half-written in his head by the time they chugged into Kingsland's station— well, the platform that served, poorly, as a station— and by the time he'd arrived at Casterly Rock, was ready to launch into action.

He'd needed no more than a few hours, the following day, to write the notices and was back in Austin to hand-deliver them the day after that. And it had taken the appeals court only a week to decide Tyrion's petition had merit. Apparently there was _no_ oversight to the circuit courts; no one had had any idea things were being done so sketchily out in the country. The hearings were placed on the docket for first thing the following Monday.

It was almost laughably easy; Tyrion's comprehensively written briefs regarding both cases, plus Clegane's gruffly delivered testimony, had the convictions overturned after a mere twenty minutes of consideration.

Unsurprisingly, the sheriff was promptly _un_ sheriffed and arrested for his revelation of illegal doings after the verdict was pronounced. His face was blank as he was cuffed and led away. Tyrion wondered if he should let Sansa Stark be aware that her enormous swain had landed himself in trouble for her sake, or at all, and decided it was an issue to ponder at a later date.

He left the courthouse whistling, pleased with himself, and to his delight spotted Petyr Baelish making his way up the mountain of marble stairs one had to climb to enter the hallowed halls of justice, doubtless there to answer for his newly discovered crimes. The venomous glare aimed at him by that gentleman started a fine little glow of satisfaction in the cockles of Tyrion's heart.

"Surely you're not surprised by this turn of events, Your Honor?" he drawled with as much insolence as he could manage… and he could manage quite a bit. "You had to know that your career, and possibly your life, hung in the balance based upon the verdict you gave my brother. Convicting him for so much as jaywalking would have earned you retribution, but murder? Be lucky you only deal with me; if my father were here, you wouldn't live to attend your impeachment trial."

"Are you threatening me?" Baelish asked coolly, though his nonchalance was belied by the dampness at his hairline and the way he kept shifting his grip on his briefcase from one hand to the other.

"Not at all, not at all." Tyrion scrutinized him. "You know, I never did figure out why you and Tywin were always at such loggerheads. If you'd teamed up, you could have had all of Central Texas beneath your unscrupulous thumbs. You're a born snake oil salesman. He's a despot without a country to terrorize… an unbeatable team, seems to me. But no." He peered more closely. "There was something else, something more. Why didn't my father demolish you long ago? A mere circuit judge wouldn't present a problem for him—"

His brow cleared of confusion as inspiration struck, and he smiled. "Ah. You have something on him." Baelish's right eye twitched, all the confirmation Tyrion needed. "Well, do as you will with it; I am considerably successful in my law practice, and my brother has his mining and now the ranch he's married into. All are quite separate from Tywin's exploits. And neither of us care what you do to Cersei; the worse the better, I always say. Enjoy using whatever it is. We'd quite like to watch as it all crumbles."

He doffed his hat, intent on a dramatic farewell, and turned to leave. But he hadn't made it down even three steps before Baelish called out, "It might be that you _want_ to know what I have on your father."

Tyrion stopped and turned back to face him. "Is that right?"

His tone was casual, bored, but something about Baelish's smugness had Tyrion's stomach clenching. What could the man have that concerned Tyrion, and was significant enough to compel Tywin Lannister to acquiesce?

"I barely know the definition of the word 'shame', Baelish, let alone feel the emotion," he settled for saying, because there was a certain amount of truth to it— he had no secrets. His whoring and drinking were free tidbits of gossip available to all and sundry, may they enjoy whatever they got from the knowledge.

"Be that as it may," was Baelish's own mysterious reply, and with that, he continued his ascent up the marble mountain to the courthouse, making an admirable display of bravado as he made his way in to observe his career and freedom be snatched away.

 _Couldn't happen to a better guy,_ thought Tyrion.

Tyrion's satisfaction lasted only so long as it took to return to Kingsland. Upon the train's arrival, he was met by Theon, who stepped forward with hands outstretched: one to take Tyrion's briefcase, and one to hold out some telegram slips.

"I stopped by the post office to get Bronn's daily 'gram," Theon said. "These had come."

Judging by the alarmed expression on his face, he'd read them, and they contained some ill news Tyrion doubtless did not want to learn. He took the slips, folded and slid them into his breast pocket, unread.

"Let's get back to the Rock," he said, making for where the gig was parked, its team waiting patiently.

But Theon didn't move. "You'll want to read them now," he said. "You'll want to send an answer back. And then go see your brother."

Tyrion blinked. "I see." He didn't, but unease clutched at his belly. He sidled away from the modest rush of passengers embarking and disembarking from the train and withdrew the slips with fingers that trembled in apprehension.

The telegrams that had been arriving daily had contained increasingly peculiar details, making Tyrion positively seethe with frustrated curiosity, damning the limitations of telegrams— the need for brevity, the lack of privacy and thus the inability to openly mention what nefarious business others were getting up to.

Read one of the earlier ones: SISTER REFUSES TO LET ME SEE FATHER STOP IS DEFINITELY UP TO SOMETHING. _Of course she is,_ Tyrion had thought. IF SHE IS BREATHING SHE IS SCHEMING STOP TRUST NOTHING SHE SAYS, he'd answered.

Read another, a few days later: HAD TO POSE AS COAL DELIVERY TO GET IN HOUSE STOP WILL CONTINUE RUSE STOP ONLY WAY PAST GUARDS STOP MANY GUARDS

And a third, more recently: SERVANTS SAY SISTER TAKING OVER FATHERS HALF OF BUSINESS WITH STANNIS STOP TRYING TO MEET WITH FATHER TO LEARN WHY HE IS LETTING HER SINCE SHE HAS NO IDEA WHAT SHE IS DOING. No, she certainly didn't. Always overestimating her talents, was Cersei.

Read yesterday's: SISTER IS TERRIBLE LIAR STOP WOULD THINK WITH ALL THAT PRACTICE SHE WOULD BE BETTER AT IT, read another. SHE RELIES ON HER BEAUTY TO BLIND OTHERS TO HER MANY MANY MANY FLAWS & SHE IS LAZY, Tyrion had replied to that one.

He now unfolded the top telegram, from the previous evening, he noted from the date, and with a gulp read its contents.

FINALLY GOT PAST GUARDS TO FATHER STOP HE IS DYING STOP HAS A CANKER IN HIS BELLY STOP SISTER HAS TAKEN OVER HIS DEALINGS HERE STOP THAT IS WHY NO CONTACT FROM HIM STOP SHE CONTROLS ALL

Tyrion felt like the ground dropped out from under him. Dimly, he was aware of Theon grasping his arm and guiding him to the gig, then hoisting him up onto its seat as if he were a child. Normally, he'd have protested, but in that moment he felt only gratitude, for he certainly could not have managed it under his own power.

His father, dying. It hardly seemed possible. Tywin was as tough as hickory and just as emotional. Tyrion had thought he'd live forever, sneering down his nose at death until death simply gave up waiting and left him alone. Fear flashed through him, and dismay, and to his shame a tear trickled down the side of his nose. _Why in the hell—_ Tyrion despised his father, didn't he? Just as much as Tywin despised him? So why—

Theon coughed, his gaze flicking to their surroundings and the people milling about in the vicinity. Tyrion wet his lips and nodded, blinking rapidly. Composure regained after a moment, he shuffled the first telegram to the back and read the next one. It was dated and time-stamped that morning.

STANNIS IS DEAD STOP KETTLEBLACK SOD IS DEAD STOP SISTER IS BARKING RAVING HOWLING MAD

 _Well, I knew_ _that_ , Tyrion thought, even as his mind whirled at the new information. Stannis was dead, as was Cersei's dimwitted lackey? He'd give every cent he owned, in that moment, to have the details of what had occurred.

I KNOW A WAY TO CONTROL HER STOP WILL NOT KILL HER THOUGH I DEARLY WANT TO STOP PERMISSION YES OR NO STOP LETTER WITH MORE COMING

Tyrion's eyes bulged until it felt like they would pop from their sockets. Slowly, he lifted them from the paper to Theon's eyes, which were similarly bulgy.

"Yes," he said hoarsely, "I do want to send a response."

.

* * *

.

Jon X

When Jon arrived at the Northpoint to start his day's work, he went to his father's study to let Robb know he was there, and found his brother sitting slumped over the desk, cheek pressed to the scarred wood and eyes glazed as he stared into nothingness. As Jon processed what he was seeing, Robb heaved a huge, despondent sigh.

"This is _horrible_ ," he complained. "Help."

Jon couldn't keep from chuckling. Robb had always been bad at sums, in school. Not that Jon was much better, but they didn't make his head ache as his brother always complained happened to him.

"Fine, fine," he said, drawing up a chair, and grabbed the closest ledger. "What are we doing, exactly?"

"We're trying to figure out how much Father paid the Westerlings for last year's feed," said Robb, and waved an invoice in Jon's direction. "Because what they want to charge for the latest order seems like stagecoach robbery."

Jon took the invoice and studied it; Ned had always handled the finances, so Jon could not be sure, but the number at the bottom seemed far too high even to his inexpert eyes.

"Could be they'd give you a discount if you were family," he said, his tone sly, and watched with amusement as Robb flushed.

"Could be Jeyne mentioned something to that effect the last time we walked out," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

Jon's eyebrows shot skyward. "You can't actually be considering it," he said. "They're as good as blackmailing you to marry Jeyne if you don't want to be reamed for the cost of feed."

"I already want to marry her," Robb said. "They're just blackmailing me to hurry up about it."

"What's the blasted rush?" Jon asked. "Unless you've done something to make them anxious about time slipping away–"

He broke off, eyebrows lifted in inquiry as a thought struck him, confirmed when Robb flushed and averted his gaze.

"Oh, Robb," he said, aware of how much he sounded like their father in that moment.

"I know!" moaned Robb, face plunked into his hands. "And it's not like I won't marry her, or don't want to. I want to. I've even asked her, and she said yes. We just haven't announced anything yet."

"Why the hells not?" If Jeyne were far enough along to be aware she was expecting, even if she were like Dany and could tell after just a month, they were running out of time before it began to be obvious when the child was born that their proud parents had anticipated their wedding vows by quite a lot.

"The world's gone mad!" Robb exclaimed. "Taking over running the ranch is _awful_. I don't know how Father and Jory managed it without going stark-raving crazy. And Mother's a horror— with Sansa gone, she's been after the servants and Arya. I had to do some fancy talking to keep Claudia from quitting. Arya keeps saying she's about to run away, and I believe her. Rickon's not allowed to do anything, anymore. He cries himself to sleep, most nights. Bran just gets quieter and quieter. And Mother's not even doing it out of spite, she's just so devastated by losing Father…"

"We all are," Jon interjected quietly.

"Yes." Robb raked his fingers through his ruddy curls. "We all are. I can't even get past my own grief, and have to deal with everyone else's, and Jeyne was…"

"There?"

Robb shot Jon a glare. "She was kind and sweet and soft and warm and I just wanted to feel _good_ for a little while. And then she told me… well, she told me. And with how mixed-up everything has been… I felt like adding one more thing would just send us all screaming into the distance."

"It might," agreed Jon, "but we'll always come back, after we're done screaming."

Robb stared at him, unblinking. "How can you be so damned calm?" he groused. "Looking like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth."

Jon shook his head, smiling. "It was Father's way. It's my way. But it doesn't have to be your way. If you need to scream, scream. Get it over with, then get back to work."

Though a pang of guilt rode him; what right did he have to dispense wisdom when his own methods were far from adequate? Things were degenerating between him and Dany at such a rapid rate that he doubted there'd be anything left of their marriage by the time the baby was born. They'd be strangers who shared a child and nothing more. The thought of it lay heavy upon him.

"I'll talk to Jeyne tonight," said Robb, while Jon ruminated over his own woes. "We'll announce it at church on Sunday."

"Good," Jon replied. "You'll see that it's for the–"

He was interrupted by the thud of hoofbeats pelting closer. It was rare that anyone would be at a full gallop up the drive so Robb leaned over to push aside the heavy drapes and peer outside. Sunlight poured right into his eyes, however, and he squinted blindly against the glare.

"Jon!" shrieked a feminine voice. "Jooooooon!"

Robb and Jon shared an apprehensive glance.

"That's Sansa," said Jon as they leaped to their feet and bolted from the study.

Outside, a strange horse stood in a flurry of up-kicked dust with Sansa perched atop it. His proper sister, who never stepped outside her bedroom without every hair in place, and hadn't shown an ankle in public since she'd begun wearing long skirts on her thirteenth birthday, sat astride with her skirts rucked up to her knees, scandalously exposing her hose-clad shins to the world.

"You need to go home," she panted. "Jorah went for the doctor."

Dread knifed through Jon, binding his lungs up tight. "What's wrong?" he demanded, already heading for the barn for Ghost. Servants and hands were gravitating closer, drawn by all the heightened noise, and even Catelyn came to the front door to investigate the ruckus. When she saw Jon, her mouth tightened into that lemon-sucking expression she always gained at the sight of him.

"Dany's bleeding," Sansa told him between gasps. "There's no time to saddle anyone." She reached down to Robb to help her to dismount. "Just take this one."

She slithered off with her brother's help, stumbling as she hit the ground harder than expected. The moment the saddle was vacant, Jon vaulted up into it. He yanked on the reins and wheeled the horse around, aiming it back down the drive.

As he barreled toward the road, he yanked the bandanna knotted around his neck up over his nose so as to not inhale the clouds of dust Sansa had left in her wake. _Dany is bleeding._ Could it have been their last time together, in the library, only a few days earlier? They hadn't been particularly gentle with each other. Could he have injured her, somehow? Damaged the baby?

Despair prodded at the edges of his mind, held back only by his determination to get home as soon as he was able. As he passed town, he saw a wagon ahead of him going far faster than advisable in a rickety vehicle like that, on such a pitted, stony road. He pulled up alongside and saw it was Jorah, driving hell-for-leather with Doc Pycelle clutching both seat and hat to keep both attached to his portly body.

Jorah's face was strained as their eyes met, and Jon's stomach plummeted. With a shouted 'hah!' to the horse, he urged it faster, whipping around the wagon and soon leaving it behind. He rued that he hadn't been able to take Ghost; the poor nag he was on seemed more fit to pull a plow than carry a rider, and foam was gathering around its mouth. From somewhere, he found the capacity to make a mental note in hopes of assuaging his guilt for pressing it so hard: _make sure this horse gets a good rub-down and extra oats._

Upon arrival at the Triple D, he vaulted from the saddle and ran up the steps, throwing open the door to find the household in chaos. A few of the servants were wringing their hands, wide-eyed; others were running about carrying things— stacks of linens, bowls of water— and Missandei stood in the middle of it. Tears ran slowly down her face but her voice was strong as she directed them.

"Have we got the sheets? And the lounge is ready? What about the rope? Good." She took the coil of rope from the footman. "Ladies, follow me."

When she turned to head toward the dining room, she saw Jon standing there and for a moment, her composure cracked, fear showing through.

"What's happening?" he demanded roughly. _What the fuck do they need rope for?_ If they thought they were tying his wife down, they were in for a fight.

"Miss Daenerys began to bleed during lunch on the veranda," she told him. "I don't want to move her so we're going to string up sheets for privacy. The lounge should be there already. You can help move her onto it from the chair."

She led him and the others briskly through the dining room and through the French doors to the veranda. The sight that met Jon's eyes almost had him crumple to his knees. Dany was slumped back in a chair, ink-dark blood seeping through her dress upward to her waist and downward to her knees. Her face was as pale as chalk and her hair hung in ropes around her face, lank with sweat and tears.

The moment she saw him, her face twisted and she began to weep. "I'm sorry," Dany sobbed. "I'm sorry, Jon, I'm so sorry—"

"There's nothing to be sorry for," he said, more automatically than with any conscious thought. He moved to the side so the footman and gardener could carry over the chaise lounge. "It's— it's just something that happens sometimes. " He looked helplessly to Missandei. "Isn't it?"

"Yes," she agreed, pausing as she and a maid covered the chaise with layers of oil cloth alternated with sheets, then heaped the back of it with pillows. "It's very common."

Jon went to Dany and brushed a platinum tendril off her damp forehead, then kissed her gently on the lips. Her eyes, wide and desperate, pleaded with him for help. Her distress cut through the heart of him like a sword. Seeing his composed, elegant wife in such a state was profoundly distressing.

"I'm going to carry you to the lounge," he said. His voice was hoarse but sounded miraculously calm, at direct odds with the alarm flaring in his belly. "You'll be more comfortable there."

He slid one arm behind her back, the other under her knees, and grimaced at the feel of hot wetness soaking through his sleeve. When he lifted her, she went shockingly limp and for a moment he panicked, but a gust of breath against his cheek told him she had only fainted.

Jon turned, took the single step to the lounge to set her down and swallowed hard; against the bleached linen, her pallor was even more pronounced. How much blood had she lost? He glanced over his shoulder at where she had sat; the seat of the chair was slick and red with it, and beneath it had a puddle of gore spreading out over the floorboards, with his bootprints clearly marked in scarlet. His sleeve and forearm were liberally smeared with blood, as well.

"Someone clean this up," he rasped, pushing the words past his knotted-up throat. The stink of old pennies was like to choke him. "Get rid of the table and the chairs, clean up, I don't want her to see—"

"Doctor's here!" someone called from inside the house, and then there was a rapid pattering of footsteps on polished floors. Jorah and Doc Pycelle burst from the French doors, both covered in dust and a bit wild-eyed.

"Oh, dear," Doc Pycelle said, and tried to bustle closer but Jorah halted him with an iron grip to his arm.

"Go wash up first," he told the man. "You're not touching her like that."

"Oh, yes, certainly," agreed the doctor as he was hustled away by Missandei.

"Thank you," Jon told the foreman. "Please go."

There was no way he would permit his wife to be observed in this condition, not by anyone but himself, the doctor, the maids assisting—

"We're here! We're— where is she? Still on the veranda?"

—and his sister, apparently, because Sansa dashed out onto the veranda, cheeks red as roses from her exertions. And behind her…

"Miz Catelyn?" Jon asked stupidly, but could not believe his eyes.

"She insisted on coming," Sansa told him, edging past him to go to Dany.

Catelyn lifted her chin, haughty or defiant or both. "We've had our issues, you and I," she began, halting for a moment as a maid darted around her with a mop and a pail to begin cleaning the blood from the floor. "But at a time like this, a woman needs her mother. And since she doesn't have one, and neither do you…"

Her gaze, when she looked over to where Dany lay, limp and pale, was compassionate.

"A woman needs a mother, at a time like this," she concluded firmly.

Jon couldn't agree more; there was little he, as a man, could do to help her. He doubted the doctor– just returning with hat and jacket off, sleeves rolled up, all scrubbed and shiny, pink as a piglet– would be able to do much of anything at all. He opened his mouth to speak, but Catelyn beat him to it.

"We're going to clean her up, first," she declared, eyeing the layers of oilcloth and sheets with approval. "Get more nightgowns," she instructed a maid, who dashed off to do her bidding. "Sansa, unbutton her— yes. Basin of water? Washcloths? Good. Jon, lift her up so we can get her things off."

Numbly, he obeyed, doing what he could to help peel the blood-sodden fabric from his wife until she was bare. Catelyn and Sansa sponged her with warm water until she was clean but the sheet under her was sodden. Jon lifted her again and the soiled sheet and oilcloth below it were removed to reveal the fresh, dry ones underneath. Thick-folded towels were packed between her legs, a nightgown lowered over her head, her arms assisted through the sleeves, and at last Dany was permitted to lay back against the bank of pillows.

"May I now attend to my patient?" asked Doc Pycelle sourly.

Catelyn nodded, her face blank, and stepped back to permit him room. He didn't seem to do much that Jon could tell; took Dany's pulse, listened to her heart, pressed lightly on her abdomen and made her groan, head tossing. The face he finally turned to Jon was somber.

"I'm sorry," he said simply, and the tiny bubble of hope Jon had carried in his chest deflated, leaving sorrow in its wake. "I need to examine what she was wearing."

Jon blinked. "Why?" he asked, even as Missandei went to retrieve the maid who'd taken away the wad of bloody clothes wrapped up in the first sheet and oilcloth.

The doctor's florid cheeks went redder. "To see how much of the… product of conception is present," he said carefully. "If it is not all expelled, she could become more ill."

Product of conception? _No. That is— that was— our baby._

Anguish pierced him, unexpected in its ferocity. He sat on the edge of the lounge facing Dany and took her hand. It was limp in his own, so small and white in comparison to his big brown paw. He toyed with her fingers. How was he supposed to help her through this? As terrible as he felt, she would be far worse off, and his heart ached for her pain.

Somewhere along the way, Sansa bid him take off his shirt. Numbly, he removed his waistcoat and shirt and let her wash his arm of blood. He redressed in fresh garments brought by a maid before sitting back down at Dany's side.

After an hour, Sansa and Catelyn changed her towels, and the doctor scrutinized their contents before permitting them to be taken away. After another hour and change of towels, she stirred, brows drawn together.

"Hurts," she muttered. "Jon?"

"I'm here," he said immediately. She opened her eyes and fixed them on him, and for a moment they were clear and unshadowed, forgetful of the events of the day. She looked beyond him to the others present, confused, and no wonder— she was on the veranda but surrounded by sheet walls and people. Sansa hovered nearby, as did Doc Pycelle, Missandei, Jorah— the bastard had not left, after all— and Catelyn Stark sitting on her other side. He knew the moment she recalled what had happened, because her face contorted with misery.

"Oh, no," she moaned. "No, _no_."

Jon reached for her, intent on holding her, but she curled away from him, instinctively gravitating to Catelyn, who took her in her arms. Catelyn tucked Dany's head against her shoulder and began to rock her, crooning.

"I'm so sorry," she told Dany softly, unbothered by the tears starting to wet her shirtwaist. "I'm so sorry, sugar."

Jon hung his head, fists clenched on his thighs, fighting to control his grief and rage. Not at Dany for turning away; he could never blame her for wanting the comfort of another woman. But he had wanted this baby, and not to fulfill any damned bargain he'd made. Never thought he'd be a father, had permitted himself to be so happy, so hopeful, and—

Sansa came close and put her arm around his shoulder. He lifted a hand; she grasped it in her free one and held tightly, providing him with an anchor to keep him from floating away on a tide of heartache.

Missandei had tears coursing down her face again. Jorah looked as distraught as Jon felt, and he had to give credit where it was due; the other man seemed to truly love Dany, if he were that devastated to see her in such a condition.

A footman rapped at the doorjamb, but kept himself on the far side of the wall, unwilling to disturb their privacy.

"Mr. Jon," the man said through the open French doors. "You have guests."

Jon looked back at Dany, but she was still weeping into Catelyn's shoulder. He ran his hand down her arm and stood.

The air away from the veranda was lighter, cleaner, lacking the smell of wet metal that pervaded the sheet-enclosed space. Jon followed the footman to the foyer, where Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon stood, the younger three gazing at their opulent surroundings with expressions of wonder.

Robb, however, was focused on Jon. "How is she?" he asked without preamble.

"She has lost the baby," Jon managed to say. There was a thick, unbearable silence.

"I'm sorry," Robb said at last, his face grave.

"Oh, Jon," whispered Arya, coming forward to thread her arms around him, hugging so tightly he couldn't catch a breath.

Bran and Rickon shuffled on their feet, uncomfortable and unsure how to express their regret, but the sadness on their faces said it clear enough.

Saying it aloud had made it seem more real, somehow, and Jon's throat closed up. He could not have spoken another word for the world, but he nodded.

"You shouldn't go in there," said Sansa from behind him, directing it to their siblings. "I was just going to request some refreshments from the cook. If you're staying, I'll have some made for you, as well."

She swept past, ignoring Arya as if the girl were not present, and Jon was filled with gratitude that she was there to take charge, and even glad that Catelyn had come to help Dany, if his wife could not turn to him for comfort. He clasped Arya tighter and pressed his face to her hair, all at sea, lost and drifting.


	31. Chapter 31

Jaime IX

Something was wrong.

It took a few days to penetrate the haze of bliss Jaime found himself in, after that peculiar and wonderful moment up against the wall, but eventually he realized that something was bothering Brienne.

It wasn't in how she treated him, because once they'd broken through whatever wall had been between them she'd been— astonishing, really, in how loving she was. Shy, still, but that was to be expected, and hesitant to initiate anything, but once he got them started… she was a wildfire blazing out of control, tireless in her enthusiasm and passion. She never refused him, in fact seemed relieved when he indicated he wanted her, as if she needed the proof of his feelings to sustain her through doubt.

He understood it well, because he seemed to need the same from her, in the form of touching, caressing… any sort of affectionate gesture, really. Even a mere warm glance was enough to rekindle the heat in his belly while extinguishing his own disbelief, developed over the decades of Cersei's scorn and contempt, that she could love him in return.

Oh, she never said so, seemed to view the words as weapons to be avoided or ignored, but he knew she did. He could see it in on her face when they made love, how passion brightened her features, and in her eyes when she looked at him, a softness appeared, as if she were watching the sun rise when she hadn't expected to survive the night.

And then, following swiftly on its heels: fear, sudden and puzzling but unmistakable. Something was frightening her terribly, but though Jaime wracked his brains, he could not figure out what threat she was trying to hold at bay. And when he asked her about it, she only looked more scared but refused to discuss the issue with him, using his primary weakness— kissing, stroking, petting— to distract him. Every time, he tried to resist, but…

Jaime ducked his head, a little embarrassed to be so susceptible, so easily sidetracked, as he and Brienne cantered into the yard. They'd finished a long morning in the furthest meadow, doing a head count, and the sun was high in the sky as they dismounted. He was glad to be home for a good lunch, and perhaps he could inspire Brienne to a little siesta, during which they'd do absolutely no sleeping…

But the Lannister gig was there, and Theon was loitering around the porch, smirking as he joked with the children. Tommen laughed at something Theon said, and Myrcella blushed, and Jaime had a sudden conviction that neither of them should be hearing whatever it was the Greyjoy was telling them.

"Theon," he said by way of greeting, handing Honor's reins to Pod so the horse could be tended. "I take it my brother's here?"

"Inside," said Theon with a thrust of his chin toward the house. "Talking with Mr. Tarth."

The interior of the house was dim and cool, welcome after a long hot morning. Tyrion had ensconced himself in the battered old armchair and was smiling amicably while Selwyn spoke. His brother showed no impatience with the situation, though Selwyn took three times as long as anyone else to say something.

"Ah, Jaime," said Tyrion, shifting his smile to the newcomer. "Selwyn was just telling me your concerns for the children's education, now that school in town… isn't possible."

Jaime hung his hat on the peg by the door and had a split-second's regret for how dirty he was about to get the other armchair but sat himself right down. They could always reupholster.

"Yes," he replied, combing his unruly hair from his eyes. "And they don't want a governess, so I'm not sure what to do. Brienne thinks there might be a correspondence school. She heard about something in Boston, so we're going to write and see if it could be possible."

"Good, good," said Tyrion, and Jaime was instantly on his guard. Tyrion was not one for idle pleasantries, and while others might be fooled by such a benign and sociable act, Jaime was not. He knew his little brother far better than that.

"I have to curry my horse," he said, rising. "Come keep me company."

Tyrion flicked an eyebrow but nodded agreeably. "Hope to speak more later, Selwyn," he said, and after Selwyn nodded and gave one of his lopsided smiles, they left the house.

Outside, Theon was still joking around with the children. Jaime shot Myrcella a warning glance that said "do not trust him for a moment" and she rolled her eyes in return; good. She knew what was what where a Greyjoy was concerned, and would look after Tommen, who was far more impressionable. Through the open barn door, Jaime could see Pod faithfully working on Honor, but Brienne was nowhere to be seen.

 _Could be having her bath._ She often liked to have one as soon as they got off the range, so she could be clean before starting on dinner. As they entered the barn, he checked the stall with the bath-trough but found it empty. Probably tending the chickens, then.

"Pod, I'll do the rest," he told the boy. "Go get some sweet tea and lounge on the porch with Theon and the kids."

Pod eyed him in surprise but didn't look that gift horse in the mouth. He deposited the curry brush into Jaime's outstretched hand and hastened across the yard, eager for his cool drink.

"So why are you really here?" he asked bluntly, as soon as he was sure they were alone in the barn.

Tyrion put a hand to his heart, his expression one of innocent shock. "Can a man not visit his dear brother, niblings, goodsister, and goodfather? I'm hurt, Jaime—"

"Tyrion." Jaime was not having it. "Is it about my conviction?" Hope leaped in his breast. "Has it been overturned? Was there a problem?"

" _That,_ " said Tyrion dismissively, "is the least of our concerns."

Jaime's patience plummeted. _The_ _least_ _of our concerns?_ He happened to think it was a massive part of his concerns, and was just about to say so when Tyrion withdrew a short stack of telegram slips from his coat and held them out.

Jaime glowered but took them and began to read. The first surprised him not at all. The second had him feeling a grudging admiration for Bronn's ingenuity in sneaking in to the well-guarded Lannister mansion. The third confused him and the fourth made him, yet again, rue his blindness in not seeing Cersei's true nature in time to save himself from it.

The fifth stole his breath clean away.

"Dying," he whispered, gaze flying up from the paper to Tyrion. His brother's expression was peculiar, grave and shocked but also… angry? But Jaime thought he knew why; with Tywin dying, Tyrion would have no more chances to prove his worth to their father, to show him he was as worthy a Lannister as the others. But Jaime had disappointed Tywin, too, had long since abandoned any hope of impressing him or making him proud. He had accepted that it was impossible, that one might as well try to call down the moon for how unlikely it was.

"There's more," Tyrion said hoarsely, nodding at the two slips Jaime had yet to read.

The first made him blink— "Stannis is _dead_?"— and the second had his mouth dropping open.

"What the hell could Bronn possibly do to make her come to heel?" he asked, incredulous. In all his life— _their_ life, his and Cersei's, since it had begun together at the same time and continued for almost 30 years before he had deviated from the trail she blazed— he had never once seen anyone able to curb her impulses. Tywin had been able to redirect them, to talk her down some more reasonable avenue, but to stop her in her tracks? Cersei was the human equivalent of a runaway train. Once she got started, all you could do was jump out of the way and hope she didn't destroy anything important. Which she usually did. Destroying important things was her specialty and greatest joy.

"I have no idea," replied Tyrion, "but I gave him permission to do it."

Jaime stared at him.

"If Father is dying… there's no telling what she's doing," Tyrion said, his tone placating. "She could liquidate everything, make it impossible to run the mine. How would you pay the men who work there? She could sell the Rock out from underneath us. Drain the investments, the trust funds… with Stannis dead, there's no one to dispute the children inheriting the Double B. As their mother, she could sell that, too, and with all that money, find a way to take Myrcella and Tommen from you, keep you from ever seeing them again. You'd have no way to fight them."

"I have _you_ ," said Jaime numbly. "You'd fight her for me."

"I'd do what I can, but…" Tyrion spread out his hands helplessly. "I'm one man, and I work in criminal law, not contract or custody. I would be starting at a steep disadvantage. I'd be fine; I have a career and income of my own that doesn't rely on Lannister money, but you… you've never lived without wealth, Jaime. You don't know how to do it."

"I don't need to be wealthy," Jaime shot back, stung. "I never did. You know that's never been important to me. I've learned to work this ranch with Brienne. I can learn to be prudent and careful with money… and I have everything I need, anyway. I have her, and the children, and… and _you_ , you pain in the ass. Cersei can keep the damned money."

Tyrion's smile was wobbly but sincere. He blinked rapidly a few times, looking away while he composed himself, and blew out a heavy breath.

"Yes, you've always cared more about your heart than your wallet," he said, his tone fond. "It's both your greatest strength and your greatest flaw." Then he shrugged and added cheerfully, "Well, done is done. I already told Bronn to do whatever was necessary to rein in her more vicious urges. I expect to hear back from him tomorrow, hopefully with more details. He's far too mysterious. The suspense is killing me."

"You'll live," Jaime said dryly. "Are there any more unpleasant surprises, or is that all for today?"

"I have a pleasant non-surprise," replied Tyrion, and reached in his breast pocket for something that did not appear to be there. "Ah, it's in my case, in the house." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder to indicate behind him. "Your conviction was overturned, you're a free man, etc. etc."

Jaime let out a sigh of relief. "That's good," was all he said, but he felt lighter, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He hadn't liked Bobby, but nor had he killed the man. And it was bad enough he'd be dragging the reputation of a sister-fucker with him the rest of his days in Kingsland; he did not want to have to lug around the title of 'murderer' as well. "I'm glad."

"Yes, well, try not to be too excited," said Tyrion with a smirk, and turned to leave the barn. "I have to go home to prepare for Clegane's hearing tomorrow, so I won't stay for lunch."

"I didn't ask you," Jaime muttered to Tyrion's departing back.

Tyrion only waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder in response. "Theon!" he called upon exiting the barn. "We're leaving!"

Jaime watched as they drove away, unable to decide whether he should be happy or not. He was exonerated and his future lay ahead of him, unblemished by the past, but Tywin's illness and whatever Cersei was up to threw a damper on his joy. He turned back to finish currying Honor and gave a start. Brienne was standing there, watching him carefully.

"I didn't hear you!" he said with a laugh, a little breathless at the surprise. She was as stealthy as a cat, and at her size, it was a true talent.

But she didn't laugh back, or even smile, just kept staring at him, and she had that scared look on her face again. Jaime sighed once more.

"Brienne, please tell me what's bothering you," he said, giving Honor's tail a halfhearted swipe. "I don't like seeing you so unhappy. I want to fix it, but I can't, if you don't tell me what it is."

She wet her lips nervously, blinked a few times, shuffled her feet. It was such atypical behavior that Jaime put down the brush and devoted all his attention to her, truly alarmed.

"I just wanted… to ask you…" she began haltingly. He waited with what he hoped was a patient and encouraging expression, while she gathered herself to continue. "That when you leave… can I… come with you?"

His mouth dropped open. What was she _talking_ about?

"Not right away," she hurried to add. "Not while Pa is… well, I can't bring him with me. He can't be moved. But… after. I could come to you?"

When he didn't reply— too confused to find any words to get the job done— the fright sharpened on her face.

"Or not," she said faintly. "I would understand. I mean, I _do_ understand. It was never something you wanted, and now you're not stuck with it, with me, you won't be hanged if you go, and you'll want a mother for the children, or maybe your sister will—"

"Brienne," Jaime said at last, slowly, after the words had rearranged themselves in his head to have some semblance of sense, "are you telling me that you expect me to leave you, now that I'm not required to be married to you any longer?"

She wet her lips again, wrung her hands once more. "Well, yes," she whispered. "There's a problem in San Francisco, isn't there? And your father is ill. And your sister is…"

"Mad as a whole millinery's worth of hatters," he finished for her, angrily. Fury and hurt rose up in twin waves to buffet his heart. "I will never take up with her again. Ever. Because I have fallen in love with someone who is almost as insane."

She jerked back in surprise.

"How can you think I would leave you?" he demanded, starting to pace in an agitated circle through the barn's fallen straw. "Do you not hear me when I tell you I love you? Or do you not believe me?" A glance showed she was staring at him, mute, eyes huge. His chest ached. "That's it, isn't it? You don't believe me. You think so little of me that I'd lie to you about somethingso important."

"No!" she burst out. "But I heard you! You said you still wanted Tyrion to push for the conviction to be overturned. Why else would you want that, but to—"

"Because I didn't want to live the rest of my life as a murderer," he cut in through clenched teeth. "Because you and Myrcy and Tommen deserve better than to have a convicted felon for a husband and father. Because I didn't do it and wanted the world to know it." She gulped and ducked her head, but he still saw the tears spill from her eyes to plop into the dust at her feet.

All the anger drained from him, just like that. "Have you really thought, all these weeks, that if Tyrion was successful, I'd leave you?" A thought struck him. "Is that why you haven't let me fu—"

Her hand came up to cover his mouth, her eyes darting around as if expecting the children to be secreted behind a nearby hay bale, listening in.

"—ck you?" he continued, muffled against her palm. He pried her hand from his face. "Brienne, is it?"

More tears slipped down her face as she nodded, looking ashamed. "I couldn't chance… if there was a baby… you wouldn't go."

He frowned. Just when he thought he'd figured out her mad logic, she went and confused him all over again. "But I thought you didn't _want_ me to go?"

"I don't!" She said it so passionately, honesty ringing in every word, that Jaime reached for her, wanting to kiss the tears from her lips and convince her she'd never be rid of him, but she stepped back, fists scrubbing at her wet cheeks. "I _don't_ want you to go! But I also don't want to trap you! I don't want you staying because you _have_ to, because you have no choice! I want you to stay because you _want_ to, because—"

"Because I'll die without you?" he finished for her, tenderly, his heart cracking right in two at her misery and longing, so evident on her blotchy, tear-stained face. "I will, Brienne. Without you, I'll just lay right down and die."

She let out a sob. He held out his arms and she went into them, right up against him, and dropped her head to his shoulder.

"Ah, Brienne," he murmured, rubbing his palms over her back, soothing her as she wept silently against his neck. "My wife. My love. Don't cry like this. You'll make me cry, too."

She shuddered a few times, her breath humid on his skin, but she calmed. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm not usually this way."

"I know." He couldn't keep from smiling; no, Brienne was not usually one to weep. He doubted she'd cried even when her mother and brother had died. "I'm well aware. Seems like you were overdue, then, hm?"

She drew back to look at him, peering closely, and whatever she saw in his face— probably a disgusting display of the open adoration he felt— made her attempt a wobbly smile.

"I'll never leave you, Brienne," he told her, an oath in his voice. "If I have to go somewhere, I'll take you with me. Always."

"You'd better," she replied, setting her shoulders back to their regular squared stance and tilting her chin in its standard stubborn angle. "Because if you don't, I'm coming after you."

"Promise?"

The wobbly smile widened, strengthened. "Promise."

He kissed her, then. Gently at first, then deeper, more carnal, with a hint of teeth, to give her a taste of what was to come later, because he had every expectation of fucking her through the mattress that night, and every night thereafter.

"I'm going to give you a baby," he said in her ear, making her shiver. "It's going to happen tonight. Nine months from now, we'll be parents."

"Is that another promise?" she said on a gasp. Her face was pink and well on its way to red, but her eyes were bright, eager. Lustful, even. Jaime's heart soared with the knowledge that he was wanted. Loved. Needed.

"If it doesn't happen tonight, it won't be for lack of trying," he conceded, since he truly did not have a way of guaranteeing such a thing.

"Then we'd better make it count."

They began to walk from the barn, toward the house. Tommen could be seen through the windows, wheeling Selwyn into the house. Beyond her brother, in the kitchen, Myrcy was setting the table for lunch.

Jaime had yet to cope with the news of his father's impending death, or whatever Bronn and Cersei were getting up to, but there was no doubt he'd handle it. That _they_ would handle it, he and Brienne and her father and the children, because they were a family, and belonged together.

.

* * *

.

Dany VII

Dany was still bleeding a week later, though it was less and less with each passing day. The ache in her heart, however, was just as pronounced as it had been the moment she realized she was losing her baby. She'd been assured by Doc Pycelle and Catelyn Stark both that she'd done nothing wrong, that it simply happened sometimes, but her every waking thought raced around and around the puzzle of why.

Had it been the ginger tea? The vigorous sex? Not eating much for several days prior? The emotional turmoil regarding the future of her marriage? Had she been too strenuous in going up and down the tall flight of stairs several times a day… or not strenuous enough, getting too little exercise? Had she overworked herself in tending to the Targaryen business interests, despite Sansa's help? Should she have gotten more fresh air, or less?

Whichever way might be the cause, still remained the fact that she had failed somehow, and it had cost her child its life. How was it that something so tiny, whose presence had barely asserted itself, had become so embedded into her heart? And whose absence was as keenly felt as if she'd lost that same heart? In the scant few weeks she'd known of the child's existence, it had somehow become an intrinsic part of her, and with its passing her world felt gray and listless.

Jon thought it was his fault. He'd said as much, one of the times he'd come to her room. Stiff and uncomfortable in the chair he drew to the bedside, he'd clamped his hands on his knees and muttered self-imprecations about how he'd been too rough with her and shouldn't have touched her and should have taken more care with his words so as to not upset her and—

Dany had laughed, because it was ludicrous, that he'd think it his fault. It was _her_ body that had not been able to hold its bounty, her womb that had not been strong enough to nurture the life within it. And once she began laughing, she could not stop, not even after she began weeping and the laughter became sobs.

She had fought against Jon's arms, unable to bear the guilt she felt for having failed him in this most basic way. Her cattle had no trouble calving; one of them, Old Bessie, had delivered herself of a dozen offspring over her many years of valued service, yet Dany could not manage it even once. Her family had put their faith in her, and she was unable to do her duty.

Sansa and Missandei were constant, hovering presences. Their sympathy and kindness, their gentle hands and sad eyes and halting voices, made her want to scream and slap them. The very sight of them had her yearning to leap from the bed and off the veranda, uncaring that the ground was far below her window and her landing would not be a soft one.

Viserys visited often. He seemed to think she lay in childbed, having given birth to a healthy child, and kept asking where his nibling was.

"Have you named him after me, Dany?" he'd ask. "Does he have our hair?"

She'd given up trying to tell him the reality of the situation after the first handful of times. She began to give fanciful answers, instead, to amuse herself and please him.

"Yes," she sometimes replied. "Viserys Snow, that's his name." Other times, "It's a girl, so we named her Visenya." She could almost see those babies, too; Viserys with his fair hair waving just like his uncle's, striking with Jon's coal-black eyes. Or Visenya's violet irises against her glossy dark curls, a wide gummy smile on her face, joyful to see her mother—

"Staring at the wall again?"

The voice, brisk and unwelcome, shattered the stultifying quiet of Dany's bedroom. Catelyn Stark had been coming by daily as well, a not-quite-welcome visitor who was the sole reason Dany was not still wearing the befouled nightgown she'd worn the day she'd lost the baby. Everyone else obeyed Dany, cringing back at her snapped commands, but not Catelyn. She'd single-handedly wrestled Dany out of the grimy nightgown, forcing a sponge-bath upon her and scrubbing until she was as pink as a piglet and her hair was clean— if wet and tangled— and ready for the arduous task of combing out the snarls.

It fell to Jon to perform that task; he would sit behind her in the bed, his limbs cradling hers as she lay against him, limp and unresponsive. He carefully untangled every knot, murmuring to her about his day, what his family was up to, the state of the businesses. Sansa had taken over as much as she could, and with Jorah's and Jon's help, the three of them were keeping things from getting too dire.

Through the numbness, Dany thought she felt a sense of… relief? Pride, perhaps, that Sansa was doing so well in rallying to the task? But as quickly as the emotion came, it faded back into the gloom of her sorrow.

"As you see," was her leaden response to Catelyn's pointed question. What else was there to do? Every time she got out of bed a raw ache in her belly protested the movement, and walking around with the thick cloth pads was awkward and uncomfortable. It felt as though she wore a pillow between her legs, and told Catelyn so.

The older woman had compressed her lips in disapproval at Dany's crudeness, but said, "I know. It's much the same when you give birth." She snatched a cushion from behind Dany's head and gave it a vicious plumping before replacing it. "As you will learn one day, because while you believe this the end of the world, I assure you, it is not. Many women exp—"

"Yes, yes, many women experience this same thing and go on to have any number of perfectly healthy children," Dany completed for her in a monotone. "I do not care about them."

Would Catelyn be so nonchalant about losing a child if one of her own brood were to die? If Rickon were to meet his end, or Arya, would Catelyn be receptive to the same sort of platitude. _Oh, Catelyn, you'll have another, and he'll be just as good as this one._ Dany doubted that would be the case.

What she had lost was singular. Other babies might come, but they would not be the same. A unique spark had gone out of the world because of Dany's inability to retain it.

The delicate figuring of the hand-painted wallpaper blurred, smearing into a cacophony of color, as tears came to her eyes yet again, and she closed them, the tears burning behind her lids.

Dimly, Dany heard a muted sigh, and then Catelyn sat on the edge of the bed, reaching to take one of Dany's hands. They sat in silence for a while before Catelyn stood again and flung open the shot-silk drapes, pushing open the French doors to the veranda. A hay-scented breeze wafted in, sweetening the bedroom's stale air, and brought with it the chittering of crickets and trills of birdsong. In the distance, one of the cattle lowed and was answered by another.

"You'll pity yourself outside today," Catelyn announced as she marched to the wardrobe and drew out a frock, another light morning dress from her mill in South Carolina, a fresh spring green sprigged with white snowbells. "Then this afternoon perhaps you can schedule a bit of moping about, and after dinner you can spend some time behaving as if no one else has ever suffered a loss."

The first time Catelyn had aimed her acid wit at Dany, she'd been furious and thrown a lamp at her. By that point, however, she was only tired of it, not bothering so much as to roll her eyes in response. But she permitted Catelyn to call Missandei and together they helped her bathe and dress, braiding her hair to keep the knots at bay. After a fat cushion was placed upon the rocking chair, Dany managed the half-dozen steps from her bed to the veranda and gingerly lowered herself down.

In short order Catelyn was gone, having done her charity for the day. The little table at Dany's elbow held a tall glass of sweet tea, a plate of buttered toast, a dime novel about the dashing adventures of various frontiersmen and bounty hunters, and a small stack of work-related telegrams, all awaiting her pleasure. She drank the tea, ate the toast, paged with apathy through the novel, and ignored the telegrams altogether.

"Dany?" came a small voice, and she lifted her head to find Sansa at the French doors. "I knocked, but…" she said apologetically.

"It's fine," said Dany dully. "What is it?"

Sansa perched on the opposite chair. "The Baratheon children— Myrcella and Tommen— well, they tried to go to school last week." She gave a delicate pause. "It did not go well."

"I don't doubt it," Dany murmured. She imagined it went the very opposite of 'well'.

"So I was wondering," Sansa forged on, "if perhaps they could use your library? To study?" She paused, clasping her hands in her lap. "They hated having a governess, but that will be the only option unless—"

"Yes," interrupted Dany, more to get her to stop talking than anything. It worked; Sansa beamed at her, leaping up while thanking her profusely, and flitted away to share the good news with, presumably, the Lannister family over at the E-Star.

Dany willed her mind to return to its prior numb state, but the issue of the Baratheon children would not permit it. She did not know when they would arrive at the Triple D to avail themselves of its library, but whenever that happened to be, it would not do to have Great-Aunt Rhae's prurient collection lying about in easy view. The books would have to be removed.

She figured she'd tell Missandei to get it done the next time she saw her housekeeper, but her conscience poked at her, not permitting her peace. It was unfair to make Missandei have to handle such books, nor would it be appropriate to ask Sansa to do it, not without the careful introduction Dany had planned on giving her goodsister. It would be shockingly gauche to request that a virginal girl, who most definitely had _not_ been raised with such things, collect and store them.

No, it would have to be Dany. But… not just that moment.

She rocked slowly, again expecting the detached lassitude of before, but her mind preferred to think of logistics. The Baratheon children would need places to work, to spread out books and write notes. And her family's sorting system left much to be desired. She'd have to put the things they needed within easy reach or they'd never find anything.

With a sigh, Dany heaved herself from the chair, taking a moment to discreetly readjust the cloth pad, and then slowly made her way downstairs and to the pergola. She passed a maid, fastidiously dusting the foyer's floorboards, and made the effort to give the girl a nod as she walked by. She'd no sooner arrived at the library at the far end of the pergola before Missandei made a breathless arrival.

"Miss Dany!" she exclaimed, but quietly. "Are you— can I—"

"I feel fine at the moment," Dany told her. "Nothing for you to do. I'll ring for help if I need it."

Missandei looked doubtful but nodded her acknowledgment and departed.

The library was its usual cool, dark, opulent self. The scent of long-ago-smoked cigars still lingered, would always linger, from her parents' and grandparents' days. The far-away ceiling, with its mural of cerulean sky and snowy clouds picked out in gilt, soared overhead, almost as if one peered up at the actual heavens. The effect was immensely comforting to her ragged soul and Dany decided she should have gone there much sooner.

Straightening her shoulders, ignoring another twinge in her midsection, she proceeded to the first lectern, whereupon rested one of Great-Aunt Rhae's prides: a pillow book showing the myriad ways attentions might be lavished upon a man. Dany had always found it fascinating and thought that, just maybe, she might request they try a few of the things in the book… once they'd become more familiar and such a request didn't make her shy away at the thought. She closed the beautifully illustrated volume and placed it on a nearby table before moving to the next lectern. Another book— this one of ways to incorporate various objects into one's dealings with one's lover— was shut and placed on the table.

On and on it went, until most of the dirty books had been located and stacked neatly. One seemed to be missing but if she couldn't find it, neither could anyone else, and Dany just couldn't bring herself to care all that much. She would request several crates of Missandei, bundle them away, and have them stored somewhere discreet… she was sure there was a staircase somewhere in the house with enough room under it for it everything.

She took a step toward the door, intent on calling for Missandei, but caught sight of her desk. It was far more tidy than she was used to seeing— Sansa's influence, no doubt. Dany wandered over and noticed that, in contrast to her habit of simply gathering everything together chronologically, all the correspondence and contracts had been arranged in piles: one regarding her shipping fleet, one about her plantations, one about her mills, one for the ranch… and one consisting of only two documents: a court order and a letter.

 _Order Granting Motion to Vacate Judgment and Sentence_ was written across the top. Below that was detailed the reasons why Jon's conviction had been ludicrous and unjust, and the appellate court's agreement with those reasons.

 _You're a free man, Jon,_ she thought. _I'm a free woman._

The sentiment was more frightening than comforting. What would she do with herself now? Jon would be returning to the Northpoint, surely, and Sansa with him, and she'd be back to her usual routine.

 _What was that, again?_

She was clenching the court order in her fist and relaxed her fingers, flattening out the crinkles, and saw she'd rumpled up the unread letter. Recognizing the expensive linen paper, she realized it was her family's stationary.

The letter was addressed to Jon, not Dany, to her surprise. In the flawless copperplate of Great-Uncle Aemon's secretary and contained a chilly expression of regret for Dany's 'sad circumstance'. However, Aemon regretted that he could not belay or postpone the consequences of the family's ultimatum. As far as the Boston contingent was concerned, she'd malingered without producing the next generation for far too long. It was time for a new broom to sweep clean, but Aemon was not one to break his word: he'd given her a year to be wed and bred, and that year was six weeks until over. If Dany were not on her way to producing more little Targaryens by the end of the next month, she and Viserys (and Jon) would be put out with only their personal possessions and finances to sustain them.

Dany's hands shook so badly, after reading it, that the leaf of paper rattled loudly enough to draw her attention from her musings in reaction. She felt as if she'd taken a horse kick to the sternum, winded, pain spreading through her chest.

So, she was not even to be left with the only home she'd ever known. As for the people in her life… even in so short a period, she'd become so used to her new life— going to town frequently, having friends, having goodsiblings, having a _husband_ , that—

Dany's throat locked with a swell of misery to rival the already-present anguish over miscarrying. She wouldn't only be losing Jon, but Sansa and the others, no baby either, she'd be back to having no one—

She sat abruptly, grateful the chair was right behind her, when her legs lost strength. Her head swam and she folded in half, dropping her forehead to her knees.

"Miss Dany!"

"Daenerys!"

And then Missandei and Jon were there, kind hands reaching for her, helping her sit up, Jon lifting her into his strong arms to carry her to the chesterfield.

Dany despised herself for her weakness, but she clung to Jon, arms tight around his neck, face pressed into his sweat-damp curls. He smelled of horse and the ever-present Texas dust and something that was just Jon, reassuring and solid and true in the same way he was. He was a good man.

She loved him.

And now that he had no need to remain married to her, he was going to leave. She couldn't even ask him to stay; how could she? Beyond the issue of how they'd disagreed, how cold she'd been to him in recent days, there was every reason to believe she'd never carry a baby to term. She knew how dearly he wanted a child. Only a monster would ask him to turn his back on that dream and keep her as a wife, instead.

"You should go," Dany whispered, her breath coming in humid puffs against his skin.

He pulled back, brow creased in confusion. "There's nothing to be ashamed of," he said mildly. "We've all been unwell and need help."

Of course he'd misunderstand her. "I'm not ashamed," she said, though she was, her guilt threatening to swallow her whole. "This isn't the place for you."

He stared, clearly bemused. "The library?"

"The ranch." She paused, gathered her strength, the frail thread of it wavering in her weak grasp. "You should go back to the Northpoint."


	32. Chapter 32

Sansa X

Sansa ensured that the dirty chapbook she'd liberated from Dany's library was securely hidden in her largest reticule, though it barely fit and its corners poked out tellingly. She felt like each pointy edge was a bright-colored flag shouting to the world, "Sansa Stark is smuggling contraband pornography"…

…but it didn't keep her from doing it.

She'd found Dany's dirty books in the week she and Jon and Jorah Mormont had worked together to keep Dany's business interests together; one morning she'd been in the library alone, the men having been needed in the barn, when she realized that one of the books was vastly more interesting than Sansa was used to seeing in a collection of engravings. No careful scenes of historical or religious interest; the people in that book were tangled around each other in poses that Sansa hadn't even known were possible.

Even after careful study of them, she had her doubts they could be done. Clearly, she needed to give them closer attention.

Except there was someone who might make better use of them than she herself; as an unmarried woman, Sansa had no need to know more about the prurient arts. Brienne, however… Sansa had worried about her. Brienne was a shy person, and Jaime Lannister was enough to overwhelm even the most confident of ladies. If there were a way to make her feel easier around him, and _with_ him…

She cantered Lady into the E-Star's yard and smiled at their hand, the one who used to work at the Double B, when he came forward to help her dismount. Jaime ambled out of the house, drying his hands on a dishrag.

His face brightened to see her. "Miss Sansa!"

Sansa blinked, more than slightly confused. Was this the same man who'd always treated her with bored indifference, if he'd even made note of her presence at all? Brienne must be quite the positive influence on him.

"Mr. Lannister," she replied with a polite smile. "I'd like to speak with Brienne, if I might."

He turned to lean back into the house. "Brienne, Sansa Stark is here!" To her, he said, "We just finished lunch. There's some left, are you hungry? Or just some sweet tea?"

"Nothing, thank you." Sansa's smile went from polite to genuine when Brienne stepped out onto the porch.

"Sansa? Is something wrong?" Brienne's face was as homely as ever, but even with the tinge of concern on her features, there was a lightness about her, a glow in her eyes, that could not be dampened.

"I…" Sansa withdrew the chapbook from her reticule, careful to hold the cover close to her chest even though there was nothing but text on it. Its title, _The Marital Bed Exposed_ , was not something she'd ever want anyone to see on her person. Or anywhere near her person. It was only because of her deep affection for Brienne that she would do this at all.

Tommen exited the house after Brienne, followed by Myrcella pushing Mr. Tarth in his chair. Behind Sansa, the hand had climbed the stairs and propped himself up on the railing, watching avidly.

"I need to show you something," Sansa whispered, leaning close to her friend. Her face felt like it was on fire. She resolutely refused to look at any of the males present. Especially Jaime Lannister, because it was far too easy to imagine him in the place of those gentlemen in the drawings. He was even better-looking up close. "In _private_."

"Is something wrong?" Jaime asked, approaching cautiously.

"A matter for women only!" Sansa squeaked, _leaping_ away from him to plaster herself against the other side of the porch. His eyes widened almost comically as he stared at her in bemusement, before his gaze traveled over to his wife, who was looking at Sansa with the same baffled expression.

"Ah, can I see it too, then?" piped up Myrcella, sweetly curious.

"Certainly not!" exclaimed Sansa, then added, more serenely, "not just yet, at least. You're still a girl. Far too young. I shouldn't even know, not yet. Brienne might not be old enough. My _mother_ might not be old enough."

Brienne frowned. "If it's so objectionable, why do you have it? And why do you want me to see it?"

Sansa maneuvered herself so her back was to everyone but Brienne and opened the book at a random page, holding it open against her chest. Brienne's eyes widened until they looked about to pop from her head, and her face turned scarlet.

"Come with me," she said, and snatched the book away. While the rest of her family gaped, she grabbed Sansa's wrist and whisked her into the house, down the hallway, to a bedroom. The moment the door was closed, Brienne rounded on her.

"Why?" she demanded. "We haven't seen each other for over a month, and when you come here, you have a book of dirty pictures." She paused, opening it to another random page, and blinked a few dozen times in rapid succession. Her chest heaved, her eyes grew glassy, and she licked her lips. Repeatedly.

"Which one are you looking at?" Sansa asked, a bit amazed to see her usually staid friend have such a reaction, and crept closer until she could peer around Brienne's shoulder.

It was the one of a woman kneeling over a man's face, her hands tangled in his hair, guiding his mouth, and the tip of his tongue was just visible in the cleft between her legs. His hands were raised to cover her breasts, and his erection was a towering spear of flesh. The worst part was that he had longish golden hair and a lean, muscled build, much like Jaime, and the woman was pale like Brienne, and Sansa suddenly felt like she should not be looking at this with her friend. She spun away and stared at the wall, her fists clenching.

"Sansa, what's wrong?" asked Brienne, a little breathless, but with concern in her voice. "Why did you bring this here?"

"I asked Dany what it was like, being with a man, and she said she'd show me her books. She said that a woman can grow to want her husband, even if love is not there, to begin with. She said that women should know what they were getting into, and that the books can teach a woman what to do, and how it can be good, and then I worried that since you and Jaime… you don't love each other, so maybe you needed some help… and I wanted to ask you what it was like, to have a stranger for a husband, if it were awful, because I— because I—"

To her horror, her voice broke on a sob. She clapped a hand over her mouth and stifled the sound, but tears continued to roll down her cheeks. There was a faint thump as Brienne tossed the book onto the dresser, and then her friend's hands were on Sansa's shoulders, turning her around.

"Sansa, tell me what has happened," Brienne said in her calm way.

" _Everything_ has happened," Sansa blubbered miserably. "I thought I would be happy to be away from Joffrey, but instead… it's like my future was all planned out, and now it's not. Now there are too many choices, and I have all these thoughts, and I don't know what to do. Sandor— Sheriff Clegane— is on trial, and my secret admirer has stopped writing to me, and three men have come calling, and Arya's angry at me because Gendry was one of them, and Mother became so difficult I moved in with Jon and Dany, who just miscarried her baby, and now that you're married you're busy, too, and—"

She sobbed again. Brienne drew Sansa's head against her capable shoulder and patted her back, letting her cry it out.

There was a light knock at the door, and then Jaime popped his head in. He took in Sansa's stance, slumped against his wife, and tried to look sympathetic, but his gaze went immediately to where the book had been placed, on the dresser by the door.

"Jaime," Brienne said, warning in her tone, but he shot her a mischievous grin, snatched the book— knocking several nearby items to the floor— and ducked back out the door, shutting it firmly behind him. Brienne's sigh was loud under Sansa's cheek.

"I'm sorry," Sansa whispered. "I didn't mean to cause trouble for you. Will he be… bothering you… even more, now?"

"He'll be back soon enough," said Brienne, "and… I might not mind the trouble you've caused me."

Sansa jerked back to stare up at her friend, who was blushing again. "Brienne! Really? He's always seemed so…"

"So…?" Brienne prodded.

"So arrogant. Sarcastic. Flippant, shallow… I overheard him making fun of Father quite a few times. He seemed just plain _mean_ , with nothing to recommend him but his looks. And since you're wonderful, with _everything_ to recommend you—"

"—but _my_ looks," Brienne interjected, but her tone was amused. Sansa ignored her comment.

"—I didn't think you'd have anything in common. Plenty for _him_ to fall in love with, of course, but nothing for you. I've been so worried for you. I couldn't imagine being… having to… in bed, you know… with someone who was awful."

"But he's not awful, Sansa, not at all," Brienne protested, blushing. "He was just so unhappy. Everything he's been through— jail, the trial— it changed him. He's actually a very good man, Sansa. A good husband, a good father, a good brother. A good son, even, to Papa."

The stern lines of her face had relaxed, Sansa could see, and the tense set to her shoulders was all but gone. There was a bit of a glow to her, a glow that could only come from being truly happy.

"You're _proud_ of him," Sansa said, awed. "You're proud to be married to him."

Brienne nodded shyly.

"But what about everyone in town?" pushed Sansa. "They'll be unpleasant. I heard about what happened to Myrcella and Tommen. People in town won't be as unkind to _your_ children, I don't think, but still… his history with Miz Cersei will follow him forever."

"If we have to, we'll move somewhere else," Brienne said, practical as ever. "Not until Papa… well, you know. But after that, to somewhere no one knows about his past. I won't have people treating him poorly. He's had too much of that already. He doesn't deserve it, he's _never_ deserved it—"

She broke off, choking up, and turned away, but not before Sansa saw her face creased with unhappiness.

"You love him," she breathed, her own eyes tearing up as well, this time with joy for her friend. She said, quite fiercely, "He'd better love you, too. He'd _better_ , Brienne."

"I do." Sansa whipped round and saw he'd poked his head in the door again, while they'd been discussing him. "I loved her before the first week was out, I think."

"I'm glad your taste has improved so drastically," Sansa informed him with a sniff that was half haughty and half due to weeping. She dashed the tears from her cheeks and leaned down to pick up the things Jaime had knocked off the dresser when he'd pilfered the book.

"Same," he said, taking a few steps into the room to Brienne. He hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her close while she put a hand to his chest, as if she felt she _ought_ to push him away but couldn't quite make herself do it. He pressed his mouth to hers and with a low hum, Brienne pressed hers back.

Sansa was delighted by how enthralled they seemed with each other, but the glare of their love was too strong to look directly at; she glanced down at the items she'd retrieved from the floor and hoped they'd stop kissing soon. One of the items was a cheap little notebook that had fallen open to reveal two pages of messy scrawling, as if by a poor-quality pen that left many blots and smudges.

Those blots and smudges looked… familiar.

 _I know that writing_.

Or rather, not the writing itself but the pen, its blotches and smears… _yes_. Holding her breath, she paged through the notebook and realized it was Jaime's will, likely written when he still thought he was to be executed. She flipped to the last used page, to where three signatures rested, one-two-three in a column. There was Jaime's, and below his was Jon's familiar hand, and there, under that: the bold strokes and harsh angles of Dear Admirer's writing that Sansa had come to know so well.

 _Sandor Clegane._

She swayed on her feet, all the blood rushing from her head in shock.

"It's _him_ ," she breathed, unsure what she was feeling. Horror, that she had been corresponding with such a man? Relief, to finally know who Dear Admirer was? Gladness, that the conflict she'd been feeling between her affection for Dear Admirer and attraction for the sheriff could be resolved without problem?

They were the same man. Dear Admirer was Sandor Clegane. The sheriff was her admirer. Sansa cast her memory back through the history of their interactions with her newfound knowledge and… yes.

Yes, if one looked again, knowing of his feelings for her, it all made sense. His reaction when Joffrey had threatened to strike her at the jail, his rage when Joffrey actually had beaten her, and how tenderly he'd carried her. His anger to find her riding the countryside alone at night… how he'd held her as she cried… even the way he said she'd looked and what she'd worn at the Sevenmas party, so long ago, now…

The way he watched her, like he was starving and she was something tasty he'd like to take a bite of.

Then there were the things he'd written to her, when he'd thought she'd never learn of his identity. Now that she knew who he was, she recalled the contents of the notes, having memorized them by that point. She could almost hear the words in his deep, gruff voice.

 _Your feathers are more beautiful— you are far sweeter— 'Kindly' is only the weakest thing I feel about you— I wish I deserved you— All of me is yours._

Her entire body erupted in shivers.

"What?" asked Brienne. "It's who? What's who?"

Sansa blinked as the rest of the room reappeared around her tunneled vision. Brienne was watching her curiously, but not strangely; had all that ruminating only taken the space of a few seconds to occur? It felt like an hour had passed.

"Sheriff Clegane," breathed Sansa.

"What about him?" Jaime tilted his head to the side in inquiry, looking more than a bit like a curious retriever. "Tyrion said he's getting sentenced tomorrow." Jaime shook his handsome head. "I still wonder what the hells— pardon, Miss Sansa— _heck_ he's doing, confessing to everything like that. He had to know it wouldn't go well for him."

Sansa thought back to how she'd wept all over him, bawling about how everything was her fault. How, when he'd said he didn't deserve her, she'd admonished him to be a better man who did.

And how the very next day, he had presented himself to Tyrion as a witness against Judge Baelish.

"For me," she whispered, staring down at the notebook, still open in her hands. She looked up at Brienne and Jaime, and a tear coursed down her cheek to land in a wet plop on the page, blotching the sheriff's first name.

 _Sandor. His name is Sandor._

"He did it for me." They were looking at her oddly. "I told him to be better. I… I didn't know he… that he would take it this far. I didn't know I was telling _him_ , I thought it was someone else… and now he…"

She closed the notebook and handed it to Jaime. "I have to go, now," she said and headed for the door, but then her other reason for going to the E-Star surfaced to her attention. She stopped dead, almost making Brienne— close on her heels— walk into her.

Sansa gave them both a weak smile. "I almost forgot to tell you what else I came here for… I spoke with Dany— Daenerys— and she said Myrcella and Tommen are welcome to use her library whenever they like, since they can't go to the school."

Jaime's face lit up, and Sansa felt a bit dazed at the sight of him. How did Brienne bear it? He near blinded a body when he smiled like that. Even though she felt… a certain way… about Dear Admirer— no, _Sandor Clegane_ — Sansa was not immune to Jaime's sheer beauty.

Then he took her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek in gratitude. "Thank you," he said warmly. "I will call on Miz Daenerys as soon as I can to thank her and discuss it."

"I… I will let her know," said Sansa faintly, looking past him to Brienne, but that woman was no help, just grinning at Sansa's predicament.

"Go pester someone else," she told her husband, shooing him away. "Myrcy's trying to make a pie, but you've a lighter touch with the pastry, go help her."

"I do," Jaime said proudly. "I am very good at pastry." Brienne just rolled her eyes, and he left.

"I'm so happy for you," Sansa told her friend, and reached out to hug her. "I was so worried about you, and so busy with my own issues, but you're— you're fine. Everything has worked out for you. I'm so _glad_."

"Then why were you crying so hard?" Brienne patted her back.

"I'm overwrought." Sansa drew back and mopped at her face with her cuffs. "I need to go home and lie down."

"Bathe your face, first," advised Brienne, gesturing to the wash stand.

Sansa gratefully splashed cool water over her flushed cheeks. It felt heavenly on her swollen eyes. Brienne handed her a clean towel, ancient and faded but spotlessly clean, to pat her face dry. Sansa immediately felt better.

Outside on the porch, everyone bade her farewell.

"No need to take the book with you," said Jaime with a wicked grin he turned from Sansa to Brienne, who promptly blushed the color of a tomato. "I'll bring it back to Miz Daenerys when I see her tomorrow."

She gulped and averted her eyes, making him laugh as he threw her up onto Lady.

Jon XI

The famished growl of Jon's stomach coincided almost perfectly with the ringing of the lunch bell. He was more than ready to abandon the chore of going over ledgers and processing paperwork; though, he thought ruefully, he'd have more of the same as soon as he arrived home.

Jon hadn't ridden herd, or fixed anything, in a week. His days had fallen into a peculiar rhythm he wasn't quite sure he liked; mornings were spent at the Northpoint, managing the ranch while Robb had his time with the cattle, as he'd been longing to get back to. Then, after lunch with his brother, he'd return to the Triple D and take over whatever Jorah and Sansa had been doing, so the man could get into the barn or paddock and run things from that side and his sister could do… whatever a woman could get up to. Sewing, he supposed, or… knitting? Visiting with Dany? He wondered if Dany were any more forthcoming with Sansa than she was with him.

And once at home, when Missandei tapped softly at the study door to announce dinner was ready, he'd eat a grand meal with Sansa while feeling Dany's absence keenly. Sansa would keep up a steady patter of discussion, her tone light and lively. The ranch's sow had given birth to a record twelve piglets; they finally had enough nanny goats to be able to make cheese from the milk; she wondered if she should let Lady be bred, sure that her precious mare would produce the finest horse Texas had ever seen.

After dinner, they'd retire to the study, Sansa to do some of that sewing or knitting, he to read or play solitaire or just stare into space and wonder what in all seven hells he was supposed to do with himself.

They'd received a letter in recent days from the Boston Targaryens, a stiffly worded condolence in response to his telegram regarding Dany's miscarriage. Jon had felt the need to let them know about it, thinking of course they'd understand and extend their ridiculous deadline to depose her as queen of the Targaryen empire. She was trying, doing her best. They could not fault her for that, nor accuse her of slacking in the unjust duty they had placed upon her.

Instead, Uncle Aemon had reminded them that they had but six weeks before the deadline fell, much like a hatchet on a vulnerable neck. It had made him so angry that he'd thrown a book across the room, for which Missandei had shot him a reproachful glance before reading the contents of the letter, and then she had thrown a book, too.

It was impossible to achieve the goal Aemon desired; even if Dany let Jon anywhere near her, he would not risk her health by encouraging her to conceive again, so soon after losing their first child.

And so they were soon to have to depart the Triple D. Sansa would have to return to the Northpoint, would have to reconcile with her mother and Arya. Jon was troubled by what Arya had done, getting no explanation from her besides a defensive "She has no right!", whatever that meant. Arya was his closest sibling, the one he felt most in common with, especially as regarded their looks. And she had always been prickly when it came to feelings, but this atypically hostile behavior was something he could not understand.

As for Jon and Dany, in the event that they were left without two nickels to rub together, he had approached Robb with a request to live on the Northpoint. It would likely send Miz Catelyn over the moon with rage, but what other choice did they have? Where else could they go? They could build a cottage somewhere on the ranch, and share a room in the big house until it was ready to be inhabited. It was actually rather appealing, having their own snug little place, though Jon did have trouble picturing Dany living in a modest one-story home, after all the splendor and magnificence of her immense castle.

As for Viserys, Missandei had said she and her husband, one of the cowboys, would escort him to Boston. If Aemon and the rest were so concerned about family legacy, they could take that one facet of said legacy in hand personally. He just hoped that Dany would take to the idea, because if she refused to part from her brother… there was no way Jon could justify bringing Viserys with them to the Northpoint. The man couldn't _do_ anything. There was no task he could perform to justify his presence there, his use of room and board.

Sighing, feeling burdened, Jon went to rouse Robb from whatever he was doing so his brother could take over the soul-killing task of replying to letters and entering figures into ledgers, and Jon could return home.

As he exited the big house, Jon encountered Catelyn on her way in. He stepped aside, holding the door for her, and she swept by without a flicker of an eyelash to acknowledge his presence. Jon would have been offended, except it was nothing new; she'd treated him like a servant since the earliest he could remember. It would feel peculiar if she _weren't_ chilly to him, after over two decades of it. There was comfort in the sameness of it, even, especially in the face of all the upheaval of the past few months.

But… she'd been exceptionally kind in her ongoing care of his wife. He owed her thanks for that.

"Miz Catelyn," he said, and she paused, not turning to look at him but not ignoring him, either. Waiting. "You've been kind, helping Dany every day since she— since the— since," he finished lamely.

He couldn't quite bring himself to say the words. What they represented still hurt, throbbing in his chest with each heartbeat. _Our child is dead_ , they announced. Speaking them only made it more real. He didn't want it more real.

She turned her head to the side an inch, no more, just enough for him to glimpse the jut of nose and cheekbone past the frilled rim of her bonnet. Then she nodded.

And shocked him by saying, "Thank you for helping Robb run the ranch. I know he's overwhelmed. You've…"

Her words trailed off, as if she'd spent all the words she could afford on him.

"He's my brother," Jon said automatically.

It was the wrong response. It reminded her of his origins, of his bastardy, of how her husband had betrayed her with some Mexican woman and returned home with a souvenir. She stiffened visibly, shoulders tensing and chin coming up. Without saying more, she strode away down the hall, her heels clicking on the high-polished floor.

Still, Jon counted it as a victory, and he left the house feeling a bit lighter.

…a feeling which dissipated instantly, upon return to the Triple D. Missandei greeted him as pleasantly as always, seeming optimistic, since Dany had bestirred herself to leave her bedroom for the first time since… since.

But when he entered on Missandei's heels, it was to find his wife bent double, curled in on herself like an animal in pain. He carried her to the chesterfield, laying her on it with exquisite gentleness and meaning for her to lay back, but she clutched at him, arms wound around his neck with surprising strength. Jon exchanged a confused glance with Missandei, who just shook her head, eyes wide, no more knowledgeable.

He was just about to ask Dany what was wrong when, in complete opposition to how she seemed to be trying to climb inside him, so closely was she holding him, she whispered, "You should go."

 _What?_ She couldn't be that embarrassed to have lost strength after pushing herself too far. He pulled back, frowning.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," he told her carefully while she avoided his gaze. "We've all been unwell and need help."

"I'm not ashamed." Her violet eyes were bleak as she finally looked at him. "This isn't the place for you."

Jon was beyond puzzled, now. "The library?"

"The ranch." She paused, drawing in breath, and he had a lancing streak of awareness, of prescience about what she would say, and he was right. "You should go back to the Northpoint."

With a start of surprise, Missandei stepped back, then left the library, aware that the conversation was taking a turn for the private. Left alone, Jon stared at Dany, trying to figure out what she could mean.

Did she think he wasn't good enough for the task for which she had married him, since the child he'd given her had not been able to survive? Now that no child could be forthcoming in time to meet her family's deadline, did she have no more use for him? Had his exoneration made her think that, now he was no longer required to be married to remain free, he had no more use for her?

Whichever it was didn't matter, however. Jon had meant his vows, even if Dany had not, and he intended to keep them. "I'm not going back to the Northpoint."

She shot him an impatient glare. "You can't stay here." She paused. "None of us can." She paused again, dropping her gaze to where she was twisting her hands in her lap. "I failed. And now you must leave, and I will have to take Viserys…" Her words trailed away and her pale brow creased in thought. She looked up at him again, despair in her eyes. "Where can I take Viserys?" Panic began to edge her voice. "Where can I bring him, that he'll be safe?"

"That depends on a few things," Jon replied, making sure his voice was nice and calm, but inwardly his guts were drawing into knots. He'd never been good at dealing with emotional women, and he had a feeling that one wrong word could have terrible consequences. "How much money we'll have, to begin with. If we'll have any, we can buy a place nearby. What about Casterly Rock? Though we might have to share it with Tyrion. He seems good company. Crazy, of course, but good company. He and Viserys can have deep conversations about historical literary figures."

Still his wife did not respond, just watched him with huge eyes. He swallowed and continued.

"And if we have _no_ money, well, we can move to the Northpoint. Robb will let us build a house for ourselves… there's this nice little place by the river I picked out years ago, with lots of trees… it wouldn't be big, just enough for us and Missandei and Grey— I know you'll want to keep them close— and the children we'll have later on, but—"

Her arms were around his neck again, even tighter than before. "You don't understand," she mumbled against his neck. "We… we don't have to stay together. You don't need me anymore. So we should just—"

"I need you," Jon interrupted. "Of _course_ I need you. I love you."

She went still in his arms, so still he thought she'd stopped breathing. She pulled back in a rush, her eyes a little wild.

"You… it can't be a surprise," Jon said in protest to the unspoken denial on her face. "You had to know. You _had_ to."

But judging by how stunned she looked, no, she had not known.

" _How_?" she demanded breathlessly. "How could you love me?"

"How could I not?" he replied, helpless, as he had been from the moment he'd first kissed her.

"But… I'm— and you're—" When she ground to a halt, he just lifted his eyebrows at her, eager to hear her explanation. "You're patient and kind and humble. And I'm… I'm none of those things. I'm the direct _opposite_ of those things."

"Gods, am I truly that boring?" Jon asked. "If you're the opposite of those traits, that means you're impatient and cruel and arrogant, and… well, yes, you're impatient—" he smiled, but it faded in the face of her anxiety— "but you're nowhere near cruel or arrogant. You're plenty kind; I've seen you with Brienne and Sansa and everyone else. And I see you as… confident. Not arrogant. You just know your own worth, is all."

He stopped, considering. "Or at least you did, before last week."

Was that what had done it? Had the loss of their baby shaken her confidence so terribly that she thought herself undeserving of him?

Or was she so singularly _not_ in love with him that she couldn't conceive that he might love her?

"But if you don't want to be my wife any longer, if you'd rather move on without me, you just say the word, and I'll—"

Jon couldn't bring himself to finish. Everything within him strained against it. _No, no, no,_ his heart cried out, _I just found you, don't ask me to let you go—_

"No, actually, I won't," he ended up finishing. "I'm not going anywhere without you. If you want me gone, you'll have to pick me up and carry me out the door. Otherwise, I'm going to stay right here and make you fall in love with me."

It seemed an insurmountable task; she was a woman whom men would compete to dazzle with their smart conversation and dashing ways, and dazzling had never been his strong suit.

A smile trembled its way across Dany's face. "Jon," she breathed. "Are you sure? Even if I'm poor? Even if I come to you without a thing?"

"That's all I ever wanted," he told her. "I never wanted anything else but you."

She burrowed into his embrace, clutching him tightly, and something ugly unknotted from deep within Jon, some rigidly held fear that he'd never find a woman who would want him. His mother hadn't, Miz Catelyn hadn't, but Dany… Dany did.

"I already love you," she mumbled. "For… for a while, now." She peeled herself off of him and gazed up with wide, wet eyes. "I never had a chance."

Jon caressed her face, running a thumb over her cheekbone. Devotion shone from her, and the force of it matched the wonder he felt to know that she would remain his wife, would stay with him all the days of his life.

"You're mine, now," he said, gathering her against him once more. "You're mine."


End file.
